Return Engagement
by Misophonia
Summary: Moriarty's back and, with his return, comes danger to those closest to Sherlock Holmes. This time, that includes Molly Hooper. Sherlock proposes allowing Mycroft to secret Molly away until the danger has passed. Molly, however, has a better plan. This ends up as the catalyst which permanently changes the relationship between Molly and Sherlock. But is this a change for the better?
1. Sherlock Denied

_**RETURN ENGAGEMENT**_

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: I don't own <strong>_**Sherlock**_** or any of its varied characters. **_**Sherlock **_**is a copyright of Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss. I am merely taking their characters out for a walk on the wild side. **

**A/N: This story has spoilers for Series 3 and is written with the understanding that the reader is familiar with all three of those episodes. You have been warned.**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter One: Sherlock Denied<strong>

It shouldn't have surprised Molly Hooper when Sherlock Holmes strolled into her morgue. After all, he was a consulting detective who solved complicated murders and regularly experimented on human remains in his spare time. Morgues were simply a part of his life, and, as such, he had been coming into hers for many years now. However, as he'd informed her just yesterday that he would be leaving London for what he termed as his "foreseeable future," she believed she had a right to be a bit shocked by his presence.

"Sh-Sh-Sherlock?" she stammered helplessly. "What are you doing here? Weren't you leaving? You sent me a t-t-text—"

He gave her a condescending stare that did nothing but accentuate his astonishingly good looks and said, "Really, Molly, stuttering in my presence? I'd hoped we were quite beyond that unfortunate phase in our relationship."

She looked away, trying to get a hold of herself. One glance from him had all but reduced her to a puddle of goo. Honestly, she'd hoped she was beyond this phase as well. Taking a deep breath, she determinedly straightened her shoulders and prepared to ignore the fact that he'd just used the words "our relationship" when speaking to her. It was meant only in a colleague sense; she knew that.

Besides, he was right. She had managed to find even footing with him at last and she refused to budge from that. Looking up again, she stared at him head on. "You said yesterday that you were leaving today. You sent a text. I still have it. Did I misunderstand?"

The corner of his mouth quirked up into a devilish grin, which he quickly tempered—like he had a private joke he didn't wish to divulge. "No," he said, walking around her and approaching the slab she'd been performing a post-mortem on for a Mr. Jonas Conners only moments before.

_No, he's not leaving or no, I didn't misunderstand?_ Molly sighed as her frustration built. He'd been arrested and held for murdering that Magnussen fellow. It was all very hush-hush and quickly dealt with, but John had filled her in. But, if that was so, how was Sherlock free and here now? It made no sense—even if he was Sherlock bloody Holmes. Sometimes, she wasn't sure what it was about that man she liked so much. He could anger her like no other. Then again, when it came to Sherlock, many people could claim that. She would simply have to be a little more patient—wait like she always did where he was concerned.

Molly moved to plant herself on the opposite side of the autopsy table. She'd learned physical distance was key in maintaining a semblance of control in times like this.

Peering down at the body a moment, he lifted his head and pronounced, "Heart attack."

"Directly correlated to smoking," she quipped, with a mild glare shot in his direction to let him know she'd smelled the lingering scent of tobacco clinging to him when he'd walked past.

He frowned a moment before his usual indifferent expression popped back into place. Molly used the pause in conversation to ask the question she'd been considering since he walked in.

"Is it because of Moriarty? The reason you didn't have to leave?"

He gave a stiff nod. "Very good, Molly."

"Is he really back?"

"I don't know. It's possible."

"How? You said he shot himself in the head. You saw it."

"Indeed. Two years ago John could have told you he saw me fall to my death from this building's very roof." He leaned in across the table towards her. "But we know otherwise, don't we?"

Molly bit back the well of emotion his words caused within her. Not only because it brought to mind the two very morose years she'd suffered with his absence, but because it reminded her that there had been a time when the mighty Sherlock Holmes had desperately needed her. No one else. _Her_. Her role in the faking of his death had been pivotal—he'd said so himself. She'd known it, of course; but having him acknowledge it like he had meant more than he could ever know, more than she'd ever admit to anyone—even him.

"What do you need?"

He seemed startled. She wasn't sure if it was because those were the same words she'd used with him that night so long ago or because what her use of those words meant in today's context. Yet, as Sherlock being surprised by her wasn't something that happened very often, she took a moment to savor the feeling, like a victory. She'd never be as brilliant as him or as fiercely brave as John or as respectable as Lestrade or as stunning and mysterious as that woman Sherlock favored, but Molly liked the idea that she could make an impression with the consulting detective just the same.

He recovered quickly. "Mycroft is going to have you taken to a secure location until this is over. In the meantime—"

"No."

Sherlock was startled again. This time she knew why. His eyes narrowed. "No?"

It took every bit of gumption she had to maintain his stare. "No."

"Don't be ridiculous. Moriarty is a demented killer who will stop at nothing to get to me."

"Exactly. As long as he's free, innocent people will be hurt. I want to help. I can't do that if Mycroft has me stored in a safe house somewhere in the country. Besides, I refuse to be a prisoner. I've done nothing wrong."

"You helped _me_. That makes you a target."

"John'll be the target. He's the one who counts."

"We've been over this before," he grumbled. "_You_ count, Molly. You've always counted. This time, however, Moriarty knows it."

She rolled her eyes. Sometimes, he truly was obtuse. Time to make her point in a more drastic manner. "Do you love me?"

For the third time in twenty minutes, she had the pleasure of seeing the usually unflappable Sherlock Holmes startled. This time, with the way he was gulping and seemingly unable to utter nothing more than series of strangled grunts, she was also fairly sure he'd swallowed his tongue. It would have been funny had it not proven without a shadow of a doubt that the consulting detective harbored no such sentimental feelings for her. That knowledge stung a bit, but not as much as it would have in the past.

"Exactly my point. But you _do_ love John."

He got ahold of himself enough to arch a haughty brow at her. "He's married and, by the way, _not_ gay."

She arched a brow back at him. "You're the one who assumed I meant romantic love. I did not. In terms of people you truly care about, however, John is your lynch pin. Anyone with half a brain knows that. You told me once that Moriarty threatened to 'burn the heart out of you.' If he's back, if this is him, it's John he'll come after. John's death would be key to your undoing. Not mine."

"I'd rather not have either of your deaths on my conscience, if you don't mind."

"You're a sociopath. Sociopaths don't have consciences, remember?"

His mouth quirked briefly with a smile before smoothing out into his typical bored sneer. "Mycroft won't take no for an answer."

"Are you sending John away?"

"No."

"Then I'm not going either."

He sighed. "It's not the same."

"Why? Because John is a man?"

"What? No!"

"Because he was a former soldier? That hasn't stopped him from being kidnapped and nearly killed on more than one occasion from being around you."

"That isn't it either. Although we both know John is able to handle himself with a gun."

"So can I."

His eyes narrowed and scanned over her body as he took this information in. No doubt, he was trying to find something to substantiate or deny her claims. After about two seconds, he said, "Target shooting on the weekends is not the same as protecting yourself in the middle of danger."

She hated how he could even know that based on a cursory inspection. Worse, she hated how much his knowing that after a cursory inspection turned her on. It was decidedly inconvenient at a time like this.

"If it's not that, then why not?" she asked, deciding to push.

He paused, as if searching for a suitable answer.

"Well?" she prodded.

"John has Mary," he blurted.

That stopped Molly short. "She's eight-months' pregnant. How is that going to keep him safe from Moriarty? If anything, that makes John even more of a liability."

A range of emotions flickered across his face. She was able to read frustration, anger, and a slight bit of unease before his customary mask of indifference returned to the surface. Then, he took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. From the way he clasped his hands behind his waist and began to walk around the table towards her, she knew what was coming. The game was afoot. The sincere-looking smile softening his features as he closed in on her confirmed her suspicions. Sherlock was intent on getting his way no matter how he needed to do that.

Bracing for the full impact of his significant charm and acting prowess, Molly hated herself for her weakness for him. What good did it do to know he was manipulating her if she always gave in anyway?

"Molly," he started off pleasantly, gazing at her as if she were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. "Your safety is my primary concern."

He shouldn't have started off with a lie. Usually, he knew better than that. In this case, Molly counted it as a stroke of luck because it made her just angry enough to withstand the rest of his deluge of charm.

"I can't focus on bringing Moriarty to his knees if I'm worried about what is happening to you." He moved in for the kill, leaning in with that puppy dog look of his. "Will you do this for me?" He gave a slow blink, widening his eyes ever so slightly. "Please?"

"No."

That one word and everything dropped. His expression flattened, he moved back, and the arms came from behind his back to cross in front of his chest. She would have sighed in relief, but she didn't want to give away that she knew what he was about. Sherlock already knew too much about her and her thoughts as it was.

"I don't have to ask your permission, you know. One phone call, and you'll be gone."

"Sherlock Holmes, threaten me again and the next body part I hand you will be your own."

That left him stumped, but not for long. "What about Meena? Do you really want to put her life in danger because of your recklessness?"

He had her there and, from the smirk on his face, he knew it. She didn't bother to ask how he knew she was living with her best friend—had been ever since she'd ended it with Tom and moved out of the joint flat they'd found.

"There, now," he said, popping the collar on his coat as he did whenever he got ready to sweep from a room.

Honestly, it always reminded her of a little boy flapping his play cape behind him when he did that. Sherlock Holmes had a superhero complex. Not that she ever planned to share that particular theory with him.

"Glad we could see eye to eye on this, Molly. If you'd like, I can have Mycroft have your friend taken with you. It'll give you some company while you're away." With a regal nod, he turned away and headed for the door.

Her brain scrambled for ideas. Only one crazy one came to mind. He'd never agree to that. She knew it. In fact, she didn't agree with it. It was the most ridiculous idea ever.

In the end, it was that coupled with the fact that he was leaving that had her blurting it out.

He stopped short and flipped about. She noticed his mobile was already put to his ear. "Call you back," he barked into the phone before closing the distance between he and Molly. "What was that?"

"I could live with you."

"Live … with me? You?"

Any meager hope that had been holding on in her heart that the man in front of her harbored any kind of romantic notions towards her was crashed like a ship against rocks in a storm. Still, this was about her freedom, not him. He'd never agree to this, but he also wouldn't be sending her packing to the nearest no man's land either. That was a win enough for her.

His eyes narrowed, their ethereal glow taking her in in a way that always left her feeling naked. Once, just once, she'd like to do that to him. Let him know how it felt.

"You don't mean that," he finally pronounced.

She gave a half-hearted shrug. "I can stay in John's old room. Mycroft has your flat under surveillance. You've complained about that to me more than once. Seems like it would be the safest place for me to be while still being able to maintain a semblance of my life. It's not ideal, but it could work."

"Molly." He took a step towards her. "I'm married to my work. Always will be."

Something about him telling her that felt like a slap in the face. As if she didn't know exactly how much he didn't return her feelings. As if she needed the reminder. As if she didn't see it in every conversation they had, in every look he didn't return, in every opportunity he had had all these years that he'd never taken. She'd made her peace with the fact that Sherlock would never love her. She'd been determined to move on. In the two years he'd been gone, she'd worked hard to do just that. In her relationship with Tom, she'd thought she'd succeeded. Its demise a few short weeks ago, however, said otherwise.

She hated that the most. How unfair was this? How long would she be tortured this way? At what point would she fall out of love with this man? Maybe living with him, seeing him day in and day out would be the key to finally breaking that particular spell. At this point, she would do anything.

So, with this in mind, she cocked her chin up at him and said, "Me, too."

"You're married to your work?" he asked in disbelief.

"Absolutely. Do you have a problem with that?"

He slowly shook his head, still gazing at her uncertainly.

"Then we have a deal, don't we?"

He nodded.

"Good," she said. "I'll move in tomorrow. You can go now. I have work to finish." She turned her back on him for good measure. Something in the rude gesture left her feeling surprisingly good.

As she removed Mr. Conner's heart and set about weighing it, she could still feel Sherlock's presence in the room. Lord only knew what he was thinking. No doubt, he was studying her and trying to figure out when she'd gone certifiable. Molly told herself she didn't care, but she did. It was only when he finally swept from the room and she was left alone that she allowed what she'd just agreed to do to really sink it. Then, of course, the panic swiftly followed.

"Dear Lord, what on earth have I done?"

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><p><strong>AN: Do not get all kinds of excited about this. I am very disappointed in myself for feeding my obsession with Sherlolly this way, but it can't be helped. This story is toiling in my mind and begging to be told. I will warn you that the updates on this will be prolonged as I am trying desperately to finish another story first. It has the bulk of my attention and will remain so until it's finished.**

**In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this and will hang on to what will likely be a wild ride into Sherlolly sentiment. I will also warn you that I have read very little of the Arthur Conan Doyle books. I do know the canon of the show and will try to keep it to that, but this story is never going to be as good as anything the spectacular Moffat and Gatiss could come up with. Moreover, I don't particularly like writing thrilling action sequences and murder plots; so forgive me for any less-than-stellar stuff in that area I happen to include here.**


	2. No Shit, Sherlock

**Chapter Two: No Shit, Sherlock**

He never should have let her slap him.

Looking back, Sherlock knew this must have been where he'd gone wrong with Molly Hooper. One innocent visit to a drug den in the name of a case, and he'd lost his tightly-held control in their interactions. The second her hand struck his cheek something between them changed. A power shifted. The enigmatic persona in which he typically cloaked himself was stripped away. He'd tried to hold tight to it, but she only struck him again and again until he was reduced to little more than a pathetic junkie.

In those minutes, the others in the room faded away. There was nothing but him and one furious pathologist. Molly could see him, the failings, the loneliness, the lies and the fears. Not all of them, of course, but certainly more than suited his comfort level. The intimacy of the moment was startling. Worse, instead of turning a blind eye, turning her back on him, or even defending him in that nurturing way of hers, she'd gotten in his face, reprimanded him with the shrill tone he'd never before heard her use, and demanded he apologize.

The little kitten had transformed into a roaring lioness.

He'd hit her back. Not physically, of course. No, physical violence was always a last resort. There were easier, less messy ways to lay someone low. One sweeping glance was all it would take to determine weaknesses and a point of attack. A few, rapid-fire deductions provided deadlier cuts than the sharpest of daggers. This was something he'd learned long ago, a lesson he'd never forgotten, and one he used to his advantage whenever he got the chance. His weapon of choice, if you will.

Sherlock hadn't needed a sweeping glance to pinpoint Molly's weakness. No, he'd noticed the lack of a certain ring on her hand the second they'd stepped inside the lab. The dark circles under her eyes denoting a lack of sleep and the framed picture of her fiancé missing from her desk filled in the rest.

So, when she finished her attack, he commenced with his own. This proved to be the beginning of the end. At his scathing words, the Molly Hooper of old would have dropped her head and scurried from the room for a nice cry in the nearest loo. But not this time. No, this time, she'd known exactly what he was about. She never broke his gaze. If anything, she cocked up her chin and called him out.

"Stop it," she'd said. "Just stop it."

_Good for you, Molly Hooper._ He'd often wondered what would have happened if John hadn't intervened and turned his attention. Would she have hit him again? Would he have let her? Moreover, why had he allowed her strike him in the first place? Even as high as he was, his reflexes weren't that compromised. He could have easily dodged her blows.

_Then, why didn't you?_ Did it perhaps have something to do with the inordinate amount of pride he'd felt for her then? He ignored the preposterous turn of his thoughts because he already knew the answer. He'd deserved her reprimands and the sting her blows had wrought.

_How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with! And how dare you betray the love of your friends!_

With those words, she'd cut him to the quick worse than he'd ever done to anyone. It was the fear in her tone, in her eyes that did him in. She was scared, genuinely scared for him. And that's when he understood she loved him—truly loved him. Not that nonsensical notion of love and romance people tried to talk themselves into feeling that could never be realistically maintained. No, she was actually in love with him. _All_ of him. Not just the persona he'd carefully cultivated over the years. Not just his brilliance. Not just his socially-coveted Patrician features, eyes and height people talked about all the time. No, Molly loved him in spite of her fear, in spite of his reckless actions, and often churlish behavior, and in spite of numerous times he'd tried to prove to her that he could never love her back. Not like that. Never like that.

Sherlock hadn't wanted that knowledge, hadn't wanted that particular emotion from her or anyone. There was so much that came with it. Obligations, rules, priorities, compromises, guilt, sentiment—all preoccupations wrapped up in an emotion he couldn't even begin to process, much less feel. He'd told people all his life that romantic relationships weren't his area. He'd meant it. Why did no one ever believe him? He'd recognized his limitations early on. Why was acknowledging and accepting those limitations a bad thing? He had an intelligence that few could eclipse or even fully understand. He used this power for good—most of the time. But this "beautiful gift"—to use Molly's words—came with a price, one he was more than willing to pay. Sentiment and all the rest that went with being in love would only inhibit and weaken him. What good was he to anyone then?

He'd hoped Molly would move past her unfortunate regard for him with that new fellow of hers. The guy was a complete moron, of course, but one couldn't have anything. But she hadn't moved on and from the second she'd nearly taken the consulting detective's head off his shoulders, he knew she never would.

"Sherlock, I'm popping out to the shops. We need a few things."

And now there was this. Molly Hooper was his new flatmate. A complication to be sure. He'd deliberately limited their contact after the slapping incident. He hadn't even allowed her to visit him when he'd been in hospital, even though John said she'd come by fairly regularly. Moreover, when he'd been ready to leave on his ridiculous M.I.6 suicide mission—his government-sanctioned punishment for killing the repellent Charles Augustus Magnussen—he'd given her nothing more than a one-line text message as a final goodbye.

How had things gotten so out of hand? He should never have come to see Molly after he'd been freed. He still hadn't managed to pin down why he hadn't simply allowed Mycroft to fetch her. It was certainly the logical answer. She would be safe and out of the way. The best of everything in one, fell swoop.

Yet, he'd gone against reason and visited her and, somehow, she went from being the woman from whom he must keep his distance to the woman with whom he must share his lavatory. In fact, this particular woman was proving to be more troublesome than _the_ woman ever was.

"I know we're out of milk, sugar, eggs, and bread. Was there anything else?" Molly peered down at the list she was holding. It was the same one she'd carefully made out only this morning on pink, flowery stationary and left attached to the fridge by a giant kitty magnet that read "Hang In There."

"Oh, shampoo!" she said, darting into the loo.

Kitty magnets? This is what he was reduced to? Honestly, having that blasted girly ornament put on display in his kitchen was almost worse than Molly being in love with him. Then, there were the distinctly feminine undergarments she washed out and left hanging in their shared lavatory. They shouldn't have bothered him. They weren't lacy, black numbers or anything with an electric purple animal print like Janine had seemed to favor. No, these were sensible cotton pants in spring pastels and cream-colored bras with tiny, pink bows sewn into the very middle.

Molly, it seemed, dressed like a little girl even when it came to her underwear. He wasn't sure if that was pathetic or endearing, and he refused to mull on it for too long for fear of what the answer might actually be. No, he did what any logical man would do when faced with such an issue. He developed a plan and went about putting it into action. The problem was it didn't exactly work. Instead, it only served to highlight his lack of control in dealing with the infatuated pathologist.

"I play the violin at all hours, Molly. It helps me think."

"I find classical music soothing. The flute is my favorite instrument, but the violin is nice as well."

"I often get bored. One time, I got so bored I shot holes in the lounge wall."

A small smile quirked the corner of her mouth. "I'm sure the wall had it coming."

He'd frowned then. Was that a joke? Was she attempting to inject humor into a situation where trepidation was warranted? What was wrong with her? John, as he remembered, had been particularly riled about that incident. Likewise, Mrs. Hudson took three-times his normal amount of rent for the next month in order to cover the damage. (Even though a bomb detonated from next door three minutes later had done far more damage than he ever had.)

"John often complained about his lack of privacy while living here. I've been known to go through personal belongings without permission or barge into a room without knocking."

She'd shrugged. "You already rifled through my personal belongings when you stayed with me after faking your death, remember? This is your flat, Sherlock. Go wherever you like. If you see me naked, I won't mind."

That left him completely stumped until he considered that she'd lived on her own before and had a strange predilection to mentally-disturbed men—especially the high functioning ones. Evidently he was going about this the wrong way.

He retreated to the comfort of his mind palace to devise a new plan. Unfortunately, the second one seemed to fail more dismally than the first. Operation: Ignore Molly was only in its first hours of employ when he realized that.

While his ability to withdraw mentally had often driven John to distraction, it had a decidedly different effect on Molly. It calmed her. More often than he cared to remember, he'd come out of his thoughts to see how much his ignoring her was hurting her feelings, only to find her sitting beside him on the sofa, reading. How had she gotten there? Didn't she realize he didn't like people near him when he was in deep contemplation? She wasn't touching him. There was that blessing, at least. In fact, she'd planted herself on the opposite side of the sofa, curled her feet up under herself, and seemed engrossed in some kind of vapid science fiction novel. If he didn't know better, he would have thought _she_ was ignoring _him_. Why that annoyed him, he didn't know.

"You believe in zombies?" he asked, unable to not notice the abundance of the walking undead wielding swords pictured on the cover. _Absurd._

She didn't respond. Instead, she gave a mild chuckle over something she read, turned the page, and settled back against the cushions with a soft, contented little sigh that left a strangely heady feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Molly?"

"Mmm?"

Did she look at him when she finally deemed to answer? No, she just kept staring at her book with that silly, bemused expression on her face. She obviously lacked common decency. That galled him more than anything else. He knew Molly was, at times, more socially awkward than he was, but surely she knew better than this? It was rude, plain and simple.

"As a highly educated health professional, your time would be better spent reading medical journals than drivel written about creatures that in no way could logically exist, much less utilize Japanese samurai swords. Why not use a gun? It's certainly more efficient. For that matter, why use a weapon at all? Isn't the point of being a zombie to subdue a live human so you can consume their brains fresh? Is that why they use the swords? Is it like a transportable can opener for the skull?"

"Would you like to read the book when I'm finished?"

"What? No! Why would you think such a thing?"

"It's just … you seem to have a lot of questions … about the plot."

It wasn't just her quietly-voiced reply that left him frustrated. It was also the fact that she delivered it looking him straight in the face, her brown eyes filled with mirth. _Now she's mocking me?_

No, the second plan was a dismal failure all right. Unfortunately, his experiments littering the kitchen, his general lack of concern in the areas of household cleaning, and all the other little things that used to reduce John Watson to a fount of righteous indignation seemed to have no effect on Molly Hooper at all. Even the oozing foot he'd placed deliberately next to her yogurt in the fridge had gotten little reaction. She'd wrapped the decomposing limb in cling film and placed it in the bottom refrigerator bin, which she'd labeled "Medical Waste." Moreover, she refused to give him any additional specimens to experiment on until he promised to keep all items to the bin. It was humiliating, that.

So, after seven days of careful planning, brilliant execution, and abysmal failure, Sherlock Holmes was feeling desperate. Something had to be done and soon. Molly's love for him was giving her inordinate amounts of tolerance where he was concerned, and it needed to cease. She must be made to come to her senses and agree to Mycroft taking her away. Far away. Immediately. For her safety, of course. Thus, there really was only one thing to be done.

"Ready to go?"

He looked up, more relieved than he would have ever admitted out loud. "Oh, John. There you are. Where have you been?"

"You texted me an hour ago."

"Exactly."

"You do realize I live outside of London now? You've been to the house several times."

"Irrelevant." His eyes swept over his best friend. "You had time to stop for coffee, one—no two—donuts and to pick up a prescription for Mary. Really, you need to better sort out your priorities. Cases wait for no man."

"How in the world did you know about the prescription? I took it back to her before I came here. You know what? I don't want to know. I'm going to ignore all of that and ask the question you still haven't answered. Are you ready to go?"

"Go where?"

John sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "The case. Remember? Lestrade seemed to think it rated an eight."

He waved this off. "Barely a six. Butcher did it. Found out his wife was sleeping with the delivery boy. Lestrade sent over pictures of the crime scene. I didn't even need to leave the flat."

"Then why didn't you text me and let me know not to come? I wouldn't have driven all the way out here if—"

"Sherlock, it looks like you're out of toothpaste as well. I've added that to the list. Was there anything else? Oh, hello, John. I didn't know you were here."

"Hello, Molly," John said, distractedly, keeping a glare on the target of his anger. "Sherlock, you arse, surely you realize my wife is bare weeks from delivering our child. I can't believe you …"

Sherlock made it to eleven seconds before John put it all together. That was a good eight seconds longer than it should have taken him. Apparently, domestic felicity was making the doctor soft.

"Molly? W-w-what are you doing here?"

She gave a jittery nod and smiled. "I live here now. You know, until Moriarty is dealt with. Sherlock and I agreed it would be best."

John swung around to stare at his friend. "Really? You're living here … together … alone?"

Sherlock remained mute and waited, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. _Any minute now_ …

"Well, I'm in your old bedroom, of course, but yes." Molly gave a merry, but awkward laugh. "If you'll excuse me, I'm heading out. Give my love to Mary. I'm told the last month of pregnancy can be the worst. Swollen ankles, the incessant need to wee, constipation—" She broke off, bit her lip, and blushed. "See you later."

She turned to leave, but stopped when her name was called.

"Yes, Sherlock?" she asked.

"You forgot your purse."

The blood infused in her face brightened. "Right." She began to look around.

"Your bedroom."

"Oh, yeah. Right," she said, before rushing off to retrieve the article.

John wasted no time when she'd gone. "You can't be serious. She just got out of a relationship where she was trying to talk herself into marrying your lookalike, she's desperately in love with you, and Moriarty is looking to kill you at any moment and you think allowing Molly to live with you is a good idea?"

"I don't see the problem."

"You don't see the—Sherlock, even you can't be this bloody dense. Why didn't you just take her to Mycroft? She'd be safe, if that's what you're worried about."

"She refused to go."

"She refused to go?" John's eyes widened in surprise. "And you just _let_ her refuse?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and stared up at his friend. "What would you have had me do? Toss her over my shoulder and carry her out to Mycroft? Really, John? Surely such a stereotypical caveman-like reaction would have played right into increasing this 'desperate love' she has for me?"

"One phone call to Mycroft was all it would have taken. He has people who specialize in this."

Sherlock gave another wave. "I avoid Mycroft as often as I can. You know this."

"Avoid Mycr—This is the woman who saved your miserable hide by helping you fake your death. Or did you forget that? Without her, you'd have been well and truly stuck. And this is how you repay her?"

He rolled his eyes. John was overreacting. _Typical._ "I've already told you. There were thirteen possible scenarios when I went out onto that roof with Moriarty. Molly figured into only two of those scenarios and, therefore, I could have—"

"I'm going to talk some sense into her if you won't," John warned, his voice rising with every passing minute. Soon, he'd be yelling.

_As expected_, Sherlock thought. He watched happily as his friend turned on heel, intent on rushing the stairs, finding Molly Hooper and—

"Hold on." John paused and flipped back around, his face scrunched in concentration. He narrowed his gaze at Sherlock before scanning the room. Something seemed to occur to him as his expression changed to a scowl.

_Not expected_. "Yes?" Sherlock asked, not bothering to withhold the frustration from his tone.

"_That's _why you called me here. You want me to do your dirty work for you."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Found it!" Molly said, coming back into the room with a rush. "See you boys later. Sherlock, are they still outside?"

He rose from his seat, strolled over to the window, and briefly peered out. "Yes, they'll spot you the second you hit the sidewalk."

She nodded and, with a wave, hurried out the door.

"_They_? Someone is following her, and you're not bothered?"

"Mycroft's men," he explained, reclaiming his chair. "They follow wherever she goes. At a covert distance, of course. We don't want make it obvious that she has protection in case Moriarty is watching. But they would be able to intervene if anyone tried anything. They follow Mrs. Hudson, too." He grinned. "They've tried to follow me on numerous occasions, but often find themselves unable to keep up."

John shook his head. Then, something else seemed to occur to him. "My God! That's how you knew about the prescription for Mary. They're following me as well, aren't they?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He let his puerile chuckle of glee speak for him.

"You're an arse."

"So you have pointed out on several occasions. You should invest in a thesaurus if you are going to continue to try to insult me."

The spreading smirk on his friend's face should have worried Sherlock, but he was having too much fun in the moment to deduce the source.

"What?" he asked, finding his own mirth fading under this latest development.

"I'm going home."

"Why bother? Mary isn't in labor, you're already here, and a client is bound to show up with something interesting sooner or later. We can even play Cluedo, if you like."

The smirk morphed into a devious grin. "Oh, no, Sherlock Holmes. Your chickens have finally come home to roost and you're going to deal with them all on your own."

"What _are _you talking about?"

"Molly Hooper. You're trying to keep me here until she returns so I'll talk her into moving out and going with Mycroft." He laughed. "Well, it isn't happening, mate. You've been manipulating and stringing that girl along for years. Deal with it yourself."

"I take offense to that. I have never strung Molly along. That would imply I have allowed her to think that I will one day return her feelings, which we both know I have never done. Furthermore, I have never manipulated her."

"Bollocks. She says no to you, and you turn on the charm. She cites a rule she can't break, and you start talking about how the color of her jumper brings out the gold flecks in her eyes."

_It wasn't a lie. It did bring out the gold in her eyes._ _Doesn't John know anything?_ "You're making it sound like I lied to her. I've never lied to her."

"Then don't lie to her now. Tell her the truth. Surely she understands the level of danger she's in?"

He bristled and gritted his teeth. "I told you. I tried that."

"And?"

He swallowed … hard. "She said no."

"And you didn't try to manipulate her into agreeing?"

"You can't admonish me for that and then advise me to do it in the same argument."

John stared at him, long and hard. "Good God!" He let out a loud snort of laughter that filled the whole flat. "You did, didn't you? But she's grown immune, hasn't she? She finally withstood the Holmesian charm and somehow managed to manipulate _you_ into letting her live here. Good show, Molly!"

"Whose side are you on?"

"Hers. As I've said before, you're an arse."

"I'm also your best mate."

He shrugged. "Doesn't make you any less of an arse. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's my day off and I have a wife at home who desperately needs her feet rubbed."

Yet another brilliant plan foiled by Molly Hooper. It wasn't fair. "If Mary were here, she'd help me," he grumbled.

"No," John said, "she wouldn't."

"Really? And why is that?"

His former best friend walked towards the door, waiting until he was almost to the steps before he bothered to reply. "Because she thinks you and Molly are made for each other."


	3. Always Something

**Chapter Three: Always Something**

"You're not serious."

Molly smiled tightly as she watched Meena all but bounce in the seat across from her. Usually, she found her friend's rampant energy and over-the-top sense of humor endearing, but, tonight, it annoyed her. There were post-mortems to be done, and here she was wasting her time. "I am serious."

"What? Are you a nun? You've been living with the man for three weeks."

"Yes."

Meena leaned across the table as far as she could, her voice dipping to confidential whisper. "And nothing's happened?"

"Nothing's happened."

"How can you stand it? If I were in your place, I'd throw Sherlock Holmes down on the nearest hard surface and shag his brains out."

The mere image of the tall, leggy blonde attempting to do that as well as Sherlock's accompanying appalled reaction had Molly rolling her eyes. "You're being silly."

Meena, the only friend she had to make the transition from uni to adult life, raised an eyebrow at this. "Yeah, me and the rest of his legion of fans. I used to think all those women screaming their lungs out over a bloke they'd never met were mad. It's not like he famous for playing Dr. Who or James Bond or anything. Gorgeous, to be sure, but a minor celebrity at best." She shook her head. "Still, to have my dearest friend living with the demigod she fancies and doing nothing about it … It's the chance of a lifetime, and you're wasting it." She gave a playful wink. "Live a little for both of us and just shag the man."

_I'd have to tie him down first_, Molly thought grimly. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"Then invite me over so I can have a go."

Molly knew her friend was jesting, but the idea that she might be even a little bit serious annoyed her more than she was willing to admit. After all, Meena was well aware of Molly's feelings for the demigod in question. "Believe me. One deduction from Sherlock, and the last thing you'd want to do is shag him."

"Some women like a man to play hard to get."

"He's not playing. And he can be mean when he wants to be."

"He's not mean to you, though, is he? That's telling."

Not interested in going down that particular conversational alley, Molly busied herself raking her fork through the pasta she'd purchased for lunch. So far, she'd done little more than separate it into its base parts. There was a bed of noodles surrounded by little hills of tomatoes, peppers, and chicken. The tomatoes were by far the biggest pile. She made a mental note of that and kept at it.

"Come on," Meena implored. "You used to love talking about him."

As there was no adequate reply to that, Molly kept her attention and eyes on the plate before her. She made a fourth pile for onions, not caring that she probably looked like a fool doing so. This dissection and analysis was by far healthier for her than the one Meena was attempting.

"Molls, you said he's been better with you since he came back from the dead. He treats you with more respect. He even took you out with him on a few cases." Meena released a dreamy sigh. "Sounds like progress to me."

_Yes_, Molly thought, _before everything went straight to Hell_. Not that she had mentioned Sherlock's brief foray into a drug den to Meena or her violent reaction when he tested positive for heroin. Or, for that matter, any of the other myriad of shocking things Sherlock had either done or had done to him in the intervening months. Getting high, getting shot, escaping from hospital, nearly dying and coming back, shooting Magnussen and leaving London only to not leave after all. Honestly, the man's life often ran like _EastEnders_. Still, it was his life and some things were better left private.

"Is it Tom? I thought you were glad you broke it off with him."

"I am. It was the right thing to do."

"Then what's the problem? You know what they say. The best way to get over an old man is to get under a new one! And you can't worry that Sherlock's just a rebound fellow because you liked him even before you met Tom."

_If that was supposed to make me feel better, you should try harder, Meena._ But she kept that thought to herself. No need to hurt anyone's feelings. "Sherlock doesn't do relationships, and I don't do one-night stands—especially with a flatmate. Now do you understand?" _There. A nice, reasonable answer to end this discussion once and for all._

"Of course he does relationships. Remember? He had the torrid affair with that girl. It was all over the papers. He's got quite a kinky side apparently. What was the girlfriend's name? Jessica? Jenny?"

"Janine," Molly ground out, returning her attention to sorting the items on her plate. She now added counting to the sorting. Best to keep her mind occupied on things other than the sordid stories reported in the tabloids.

"Hit a sore spot, did I?"

Unable to concentrate anymore, Molly threw her fork down and pasted on a smile. "So, how's life? Still seeing Carter?"

Meena's eyes narrowed as if she were studying her. "C'mon, Molls. Talk to me. We don't do that anymore. Not since you moved in with the demigod. You won't let me come round, you barely ring me—even though I've rang you again and again—and you only agreed to meet me because I guilted you into it. You even made me come to Bart's to see you even though you know how much this place depresses me." She looked around the stark cafeteria they were currently inhabiting and gave a delicate shudder. "It's not even proper time for eating. It's nearly half eleven at night. I'll never know how you stand working here. Not an ounce of cheer to be found anywhere. And the hours. Ghastly!"

"I like my job. We've been over this. And, as far as why I haven't rung you back, it's because I've been busy." Molly knew it wasn't the best excuse in the world. It wasn't even the truth, but telling Meena the truth would only lead to more questions, questions Molly didn't want to think about much less answer.

"You never used to be too busy for me. I used to be the busy one. What's happened to us? Now you're living with the posh detective, and I'm stuck with …" She paled a bit and looked away. "Well, it doesn't matter."

Molly immediately felt guilty. She hadn't been holding up her side of the friendship for a while. There were clearly things going on with Meena, things she needed to talk through. "Tell me about Carter," she urged. "Last time we chatted, you said things were getting serious. Any news?"  
>Her friend kept staring before releasing a heavy sigh. "Fine." She jerked back from the table and settled against her chair, arms crossed over the heaving bosom Molly had envied on more than one occasion. "It's fine. No news, yet. He wanted to take me to the pub earlier to watch a football match on telly with his friends. But you know how I am. Always have to keep the men dangling." She laughed at her little joke. "Besides, I wanted to spend some time with you. And now here I am, wasting a perfectly good shagging night trying to get my best friend to talk to me."<p>

"I'm sorry. There's just nothing to say about—" Molly stopped when her phone chimed in her pocket. Reaching into her lab coat, she read the text she'd just been sent. _Really? Now?_ She hated the delicious zing of excitement that hit her and put the mobile away. "I have to go."

"What? Now? You only just got here. Surely they let you take longer than a twenty-minute meal break."

"I have work piling up."

"You cut up dead people. I think they can wait."

Molly's phone chimed again. She pulled it out again to read the message, already aware of who was sending it and what it said. "I'm sorry. I do need to dash. Can we perhaps reschedule? We can go out if you like. You know, when the sun's up and all. We'll have hours and hours to spend talking."

"It's him, isn't it?"

Her head popped up from the mobile. "Huh?"

"The _demigod_ sent you a message."

"Wh-why would you think that?" Molly asked, hating how her cheeks were heating with embarrassment.

"You went from being all sullen and morose to grinning like an idiot in three seconds, all because you got a text. You only do that for _him_."

_Yet another failing I need to work on_, Molly thought.

"I'm right then, aren't I?" Meena asked, with an excited clap. "It was him."

The mobile chimed a third time, the noise sounding almost as impatient as the person sending the message probably was. "Yes. He's waiting. It's a case." Molly got to her feet, shoving her seat back with the backs of her calves. "I'll ring you soon. I promise."

Meena grabbed her purse and rose too. "I'm coming with you."

"What? No!"

"And miss a chance like this? I want to meet the famous detective. Face-to-face."

"Why?"

Tossing her hair behind her shoulder, Meena said, "I need to decide if he's good enough for you or if he's a certifiable weirdo. Can only do that in person."

Molly could just imagine how that particular meeting would play out. Meena would flirt and simper—her usual way of wrapping all men around her little finger. Sherlock, revolted, would take one look at her, make a few crushing deductions, and the fireworks would go from there. _Nope. Not happening._

"I can't. Rules. Visitors aren't allowed in the mortuary without authorization."

"Sherlock goes in there all the time."

"He has authorization. He works with the Yard, remember?"

"You're being—" Meena broke off and looked up, her mouth falling open in stunned wonder.

Molly knew that look._ No, not now._

"There you are."

The deep baritone sounded from behind, confirming that the sinking sensation in Molly's stomach wasn't an overreaction. She closed her eyes and collapsed back into her seat in defeat.

_Oh, bugger._

—**RE—**

Sherlock's eyes swept over the pair of them. "Since you're obviously done with your meal, we can be on our way." He turned abruptly and started to walk off to encourage her to move. Time was of the essence. "Come along, Molly."

"Wait!"

He flipped back around. Molly's dining companion had spoken. The blonde was currently eyeing him in the way that women—and more than a few men—did which often made him uncomfortable. _Good Lord. _There was a case waiting. Tests to be run. Didn't Molly understand this? Hadn't she gotten his texts? She hadn't responded, but then again, he hadn't needed her to. What he needed was his pathologist on her feet and following him to her lab, but all she seemed willing to do was sit there with her face buried in her palm. _What is that about?_

"You're Sherlock Holmes."

His attention darted back to the companion. "You're Meena Chambers, and she is Molly Hooper. Now that we've made it past the introductions, Molly and I have work to do. Good evening." He reached down and gave Molly a slight nudge on her shoulder with his finger. "Let's go."

Not the least bit offended by his dismissive manner, Meena smiled widely, one hand reaching up to grab a lock of her hair in order to twist it around her finger, which was painted the most alarming shade of red with delicate, gold filigree on the top. She giggled even though nothing remotely humorous had been said.

_Why do women do that? _

"You are a looker, aren't you, Sherlock? How did you know my name? Does Molly talk about me or did you do that magic thing you do?"

_Oh dear Lord. Not this again._ "I don't perform magic. I make deductions based on evidence and balance of probability."

"Really?" Meena purred, rising from her seat and sauntering up to him. "What else can you …" She poked him in the chest with her finger, "deduce about me?"

Molly shot to her feet. "I think that's enough. Sherlock, let's go. Meena, I'll ring you later. I'm sure Carter is finished watching the match by now and wants to see you. You can have a romantic night for two." She gave a little wave to her friend before grabbing hold of her his hand and trying to pull him along with her.

The feel of Molly's hand in his was warm and strange and surprising and made him immediately want to pull away. However, as the handholding also meant they were actually leaving, he meekly followed instead. Molly's former dining companion, however, wasn't inclined to be put off. A shuffle of footsteps and she planted herself in front of them. She was plainly the persistent type.

"Well, Sherrrrrlock?" Meena sing-songed his name.

_Is she intoxicated?_ Her eyes were dilated, but her cheeks weren't flushed, her movements seemed steady and there were no other tell-tale signs of inebriation present.

"Meena, you don't want Sherlock to—" Molly began, jerking on his hand again.

"Hush up, Molly. No fair trying to rush off with him. He just got here. _You_ get him all the time. Let the rest of us have a turn." She batted her eyes at him. "_Do_ me, Sherlock Holmes."

Molly rapidly released his hand, blushed, and hid her face in both palms this time. Sherlock raised an eyebrow again. Obviously, Meena's last statement had a more salacious meaning. She also didn't seem to care that she was clearly distressing her "friend."

"Go on. Don't be shy," Meena said with a wink he found particularly repulsive.

_Is that how I look when I do that? Preposterous._ If so, he'd never do it again. He didn't care how much people seemed to like it. Whatever else she was, this woman was plainly not Molly's true friend. The sooner his pathologist was made aware of that fact, the better. Yet, as he made this decision, he could all but hear John yelling in the back of his brain that it was better to mind his own business and keep some deductions to himself. Nonetheless, if Molly's companion was going to ask for her comeuppance, who was he not to oblige?

"You work in a nail shop even though you have a four-year degree. You only went to university to satisfy the whims of an overbearing father, but you work in the shop because it feeds your incessant need to gossip and live vicariously through the lives of others. You have a dog, a black terrier of some kind. You're thirty-four, but you tell everyone you're twenty-nine and you're considering Botox to get rid of the frown lines on your forehead—you shouldn't do it, you know. The risks far outweigh the benefits on that one."

"Sherlock," Molly shushed. "That's enough."

But he was already on a roll and simply couldn't stop himself. "You've never been married, but you desperately want to be—more for the actual wedding than the marriage part. Moreover, you recently had an abortion and the reason you are here tonight instead of with your boyfriend …" He paused, digging into the recesses of his mind in search of his information. "Carter? Is because the baby you aborted was not his, but you don't want to break up with him because being with someone is better than being alone. Did I miss anything?"

A loud, prolonged hush filled the space between them. In fact, the only audible sounds were the distant hums of a few talking diners clustered in the far corner, the chink of metal against metal as the cooks stirred various dishes under the heating lamps of the buffet with inordinately large serving spoons, and a low, keening groan issuing forth from Molly.

Then, everything happened all at once. Meena broke into tears and fled the room. Molly elbowed him in the side and tore off after her friend. Sherlock was left standing there, holding his aching rib and unsure of what had just occurred.

"Not good?" he asked no one.

Looking back, he supposed the deduction about the abortion was crossing a line. Sometimes, he got on a roll and the deductions just made themselves. Actually, now that he considered it, that particular issue was becoming a bit of a running problem lately. But, if it was such a secret, why have a business card from the abortion clinic tucked into the front pocket of your purse? Furthermore, why not zip the purse closed? There was a bridal magazine in there, the woman still could have shoved it out of the way and zipped the thing closed if she really wanted to. Anyone would have been able to put two and two together and deduce all that.

As he journeyed to the lab alone, deciding to wait for Molly to catch up with him there, he wondered how much trouble he might be in for this. He didn't need John here to know Molly was cross. Whenever John was cross, he'd take off and spend the evening drinking at the pub with Mike Stamford or one of his other cronies. But so far, there was very little about living with John that provided insight into living with Molly.

Sherlock squelched the slight trepidation clenching his stomach. What was wrong with him? Here he was a grown man acting like he was about to receive a keen scolding from Mummy. It was absurd really. No doubt, once she calmed down, Molly would realize he'd done her favor. Who knew how long that Meena had been using the poor girl? It was a miracle the threat of Moriarty had resurfaced and she'd had to move in to Baker Street. What might have happened if she was still living with her "friend"? He shuddered to think of the probable outcomes.

That was it. Molly's heart was too big, too open. She trusted too easily. She needed to learn not to do that or she'd only get hurt more often. That was a prime example of how the woman undoubtedly didn't understand when she was wasting emotion on the wrong people. Good Lord, she probably was disappointed or got her heart broken on a daily basis. How did she cope? Worse, how was she ever able to concentrate on work?

Well, no longer. He could be her guide, her mentor as it were. He smiled to himself as he entered the lab and settled down behind his favorite microscope. Yes, that was it. This was what he could do to solve not only this problem, but the main issue of her being in love with him. He'd teach her to rein in her emotions. Promote logic and limit sentiment. That was the way to be. Once people proved themselves trustworthy—then and only then—should they be allowed some access to your life and only then should you permit yourself to care for them. Mycroft would disagree, of course, but his older brother didn't know everything.

Sherlock knew, by the time he was done, Molly Hooper would be a cleverer, improved woman more than able to logically navigate the waters of any relationship. There would be no more Meenas, psychopathic ex-boyfriends, or milksop fiancés. She'd be a woman in control of her own destiny, a woman who was a victim to no one. Then, she could just go off and fall in love with someone else, someone worthy of her.

He smiled, infinitely pleased with himself. Yes, this was a genius plan. He was actually disappointed not to have conceived it sooner. Then again, he always missed something. He'd made his peace with that fault long ago. It was just the way it was.


	4. Just Friends

**Chapter Four: Just Friends**

The git was right where she knew he'd be, occupied behind a microscope studying slides as if he hadn't just trampled some innocent girl's feelings into dust. Well, not _innocent_, Molly mentally amended, but still not deserving of such harsh treatment. She slammed the door to the lab as she came in, hoping to at least put a jolt into his unruffled demeanor. Instead, all he did was calmly make a note in his little black notebook before replacing the slide he'd been looking at with another.

And, with that, any remaining guilt she'd had for striking him all those months ago was gone. He'd be lucky if he escaped without her hitting him now. _Wanker. Smug, beautiful wanker, but wanker nonetheless._

"Is this where you slap me again?"

Had he read her mind? Sometimes, it certainly seemed like he could. Molly ignored his obvious dig as she shrugged on her lab coat from where she'd hung it behind the door.

Sherlock, however, was apparently determined to remain in control of the conversation. "You're late."

"No."

That brought him from behind his microscope. He peered at her as if confused. "No? I've been sitting her for almost fifteen minutes. You are _definitely_ late."

"No, as in we're not going to sweep this under the rug and pretend it didn't happen. Do you have any idea the damage you've done? I couldn't even get Meena to talk to me."

"Good. Stay away from her. No need to thank me."

"Thank you?" she echoed. "Are you mad? You just reduced my dearest friend to a puddle of tears and you think I should be grateful to you?"

"Haven't you been paying attention? She wasn't your _friend_. I just proved that. And, yes, you _should_ be grateful. I saved you a lot of trouble." Sherlock's tone indicated he believed himself to be the injured party now. He went back to his slides, muttering to himself in the whiney tone she'd once found to be cute. "Honestly, this is worse than John with his revolving door of twit girlfriends. Each one more tedious and insipid than the last. I tried to tell him they were hopeless, but did he listen? No. I don't know how he managed to find Mary all on his own. A miracle, if you ask me."

Molly remembered all the times John had complained about Sherlock being rude to his girlfriends as well as all the times Sherlock had wailed about John bringing round some new totty he thought was particularly horrid. She'd known then that it wasn't just a slight bit of jealousy that had Sherlock acting this way. It was more a protective measure he'd employed for his friend. Molly had tried to explain to John on more than one occasion.

"_What are you saying?" he'd asked. "That Sherlock is operating like some kind of x-ray machine for my girlfriends to see if they're a bomb about to blow up on me?"_

"_Yes," she'd replied. "Right in one!"_

John hadn't believed her. Or, at least, he hadn't taken her seriously enough not to stop being furious whenever Sherlock practiced his x-ray technique on the next unsuspecting prospective lover. Nevertheless, Molly'd always believed her theory to be sound. Could the consulting detective be employing the same measure with her? Why would he even care? Meena wasn't a potential romantic partner, she was merely her friend. Sherlock hadn't even bothered to deduce Tom in the few times the men had been in the room together. Truthfully, he seemed to avoid her former betrothed like he had the plague.

"You're wrong about Meena. She's a good person."

He scoffed. "You think that about everyone, which reminds me. I've decided to take you under my wing. It's time you had a proper education on how to stop your incessant need to see the world through the eyes of a Disney princess. That's a liability which will get you killed one of these days, or, worse, heartbroken."

"Did you just imply that heartbreak is worse than dying?"

"Yes. So?"

"How would you know?"

That jolted him, to be sure. She watched him carefully, curious to see what his expression might give away. There were few gifts she had to combat Sherlock's powers of deduction or his overall brilliance of mind. But, there was very little he could hide from her if she was observing him like this. She always somehow managed to see beyond the façade he usually hid behind. It wasn't a power she showed off too often. If he ever knew how much she could truly intuit from his expressions, he'd probably never come near her again. Thus, she often kept her findings to herself. Still, on more than one occasion they had proven helpful at giving insight into the mind and heart—_yes, he had one_—of Sherlock Holmes.

Besides a wariness in his frown, he gave nothing away. He opened his mouth as if to ask her a question and then seemed to think better of it. He returned to the microscope and busied himself with work. Molly turned away from him and went over to her desk. She picked up where she'd left off before going to meet Meena, who she endeavored to deal with tomorrow.

She was signing off on the third report when he finally spoke.

"I wasn't wrong. She isn't your friend. She uses you as a measuring stick. As long as you are lonelier and worse off than she is, she's OK. The second you have something that she deems only worthy of her, she seeks to take it away."

She hated how much what he was saying seemed true. How happy had Meena been to take her in after the demise of her relationship with Tom? She'd almost … reveled in it. Molly had thought at the time that it was an effort to raise her spirits, but now she wasn't as sure. Still, there was more to it than that. Meena wasn't perfect. No one was. But she had her good qualities as well. Molly focused on those and endeavored to get to the bottom of the rest when and if she ever got to talk to Meena again. "Don't talk about that which you don't know."

"I know friendship."

"Really?" She looked up at him with a glare. "Does it matter that, in hurting Meena, you humiliated me or that you caused needless strife between two women who have been close for over a decade? Is that the actions of _you_ being my friend?"

"I never said I was your friend."

This time, it felt like he was the one doing the slapping. She let out a shallow breath and looked away from him so he wouldn't notice the tears threatening. The silence between them was filled with a host of unsaid things. Molly clenched her jaw and dove into another report, fighting back the urge to scream at him, to run from the room in tears, or to in any way give him the assurance that his hurtful words had struck home. Of course they weren't friends. How could she have been stupid to think so? Sure, she'd helped him fake his death, helped him a million different times in a million different ways since she'd met him, but to the great Sherlock Holmes, that didn't make them friends.

She'd knew he'd never choose her as a romantic partner. That was bad enough. But all the time they'd spent together, all the work they'd accomplished, and the trials they had endured, she had at least thought she'd earned a place in his inner circle. She wouldn't be his girlfriend, but she could be his friend. Somehow, she told herself more times than she wanted to remember, that would be enough. Sherlock had so few friends. It would be an honor to be considered one. She counted. She counted amongst his friends. That was much more than many people could claim.

Except she didn't count. Not really.

"I've upset you?" he asked quietly.

She jumped, unprepared for the fact that he'd moved to stand near her. The body heat emanating from him brushed against her arm, causing the little hairs to rise. She gave a dismissive wave. "It's fine."

"Molly, I—you see, I—"

She kept her eyes firmly on the work in front of her. "Of course we're not friends. I don't know what I was thinking. Why would someone like you ever consider _me_ a friend? I'm just a … pathologist, a work colleague, a pliable tool to help you when you need it."

His hand reached out, his touch nearly searing her skin briefly before she snatched away. "Don't. Just don't," she said. She rose from her desk, shoving past him and walking a few steps away before she flipped about to face him. She needed the space, needed him firmly out of reach—just as he always was and how he always would be. Her frustration and anger towards him was growing, but there was additional amount aimed at herself. When would she learn? Maybe he was right. Maybe she did see the good in people too much for her own best interests. But was it really better to go around so cynical and apathetic all the time? This outlook had not served to bring Sherlock any measure of true happiness, had it?

"Molly, you're important to me. You must understand that."

"No," she interrupted. "No, you don't get to lie to me now to try to smooth things over, fill my head with a bunch of rubbish about how I count when I clearly don't. Not really. It's fine, Sherlock. You're not my friend. I accept that. It was foolish of me to think so in the first place. I'm not John Watson or Irene Adler or even Greg Lestrade. I'm just me. Boring, old me."

"You're not. You're …" He clenched his eyes closed as though searching for the right word. Then popped back open to stare frantically at her. "You're … just _different_."

"I don't have a problem with being different. I never have. It took me a long time to accept myself." She glared up at him, defiantly, not daring to hide the tears welling in her eyes this time. _Let him see. _It was time he truly saw her. _Past time._ "But I have, and you or no one else is going to take that away from me. I don't need you to tell me that I'm important or that I'm different or that I count. I already know that. I'm a good person. I'm smart—maybe not as exceptional as you, but I have my own set of talents. I can do things, understand things that even you can't."

"Molly—"

"Shut. Up. Now."

His mouth snapped closed. Whether it was because of the vehemence of her tone or from surprise that she would speak to him in such a way, Molly didn't know. She didn't care.

"You always have the last word. Well, not this time. This time, it's mine. Let me tell you a few things about me, Sherlock Holmes, a few things your _brilliant_ _deductions_ have certainly missed." She took a deep breath. "I do see the good in people. You consider it a liability. I consider it an asset. One look and you see someone's every fault. One look and I see every potential. No one is perfect. Not even you. People make mistakes, they fall short and they need second chances. They need people like me to see the decency in them—even in its smallest quantity—to remind them of that decency and to give them a reason to want to be a better person, to try harder. Otherwise, they truly would be lost souls indeed."

She edged nearer to him. It was dangerous having him this close, but she had to make her point. He had to understand. "I want to see the goodness in people because, for all the ones I get wrong, all the ones who disappoint me or 'break my heart,' there is one who is everything I believed him to be and more. There is one who can overcome all the wrong he's done and make the world a better place to be. My seeing the good in him, my trusting that goodness when cold logic would have told me to turn him away, made a difference, and I will never be sorry for that."

All the blood drained from his face at the implications of her words. She held his gaze, her chin cocking up at him. _That's right. You_, she thought. _People like you desperately need people like me._

She continued, not allowing him to speak. "Meena has her failings, but she has been my friend for a long, long time. The woman you see as a vain, hanger-on who only uses me as her personal self-esteem test, is also the woman who skipped her bio midterm our first year at uni to bring me chicken soup when I got the flu. She's the one who talked to my professors and got them to let me make up the work I'd missed. She has her issues. She flirts to make herself feel more comfortable around men, and she doesn't always think before she acts or speaks. But she _is_ my friend, one of the few I have in this world. And, if you say one more word against her, I will throw you out of my lab and refuse to work with you ever again."

And, with that, she turned on heel and left the room. She moved down the hallway, unsure of what this would change between her and Sherlock. Would he hate her now? Or, would this just be something else he chalked up to her naiveté and silliness? Whatever happened, she didn't regret her words. She'd been right. Molly pulled her phone from her pocket to see if Meena had bothered to respond to the three texts she'd sent. So far, nothing.

_Tomorrow_, she told herself. _I'll deal with it tomorrow._ The news of the abortion had shocked Molly, but not really. Meena was always one of those people who could never be truly satisfied with what she had. She was always wondering what was over the next hill, intent on finding greener pastures. Nevertheless, Molly knew Meena should have told her what she'd been struggling with. _I should have been there to lend an ear_, she mentally chided herself as she entered the heart of the morgue and began to prep her next post-mortem. _She's been going through all of this on her own. It's not right._

She wheeled out the next body on her list. Black female. Early twenties. Suspected suicide by drug overdose. As she took samples and worked through her protocols, she put all of it out of her mind. Sherlock, Meena, all of it. This is why she loved this work. Not only was it always a mystery to uncover—she loved puzzles—but there was also the added comfort that came from protocols and completing the same pattern of steps in an attempt to reach concrete conclusions. Working through her incisions, little mysteries within the body were uncovered. _Pregnant. Barely a few weeks._ Focusing on the organs gave her further insight. _Last meal was chicken, rice, and vegetables. _Removing the heart, she weighed it. _Healthy. No former signs of drug-related damage. _The lungs, kidneys, and liver corroborated this theory. In fact, the longer she worked, the more Molly became certain this suicide was hardly that.

It was as she'd moved lower that she heard him come in. She sighed, putting down the scalpel she'd been holding and looking up at him. He entered the room at his usual pace, stopping only when he was a few feet from the long, metal table between them.

"I'm sorry," he began, swallowing nervously. "I would … if you want … I would like to be your friend. Would that … be agreeable to you?"

Her gasp was quickly muffled. Her shock took a bit longer to get under control. A myriad of thoughts rushed her brain all at once, but only one made it out of her mouth. "Sherlock, if this is about what I said, it doesn't matter. We don't have to—we can remain as we were. It's fine. I don't want you do this because of a guilty conscience. It's better if—"

"Molly," he interrupted, a small grin quirking the side of his mouth. "I'm a sociopath. We don't _have_ consciences, remember?"

She laughed. She couldn't help it. Having her words from before so wittily turned against her was humorous. He joined in on the laugh, his rich, deep voice blending so well with hers. It was at times like this, when he was unguarded and so at ease with himself and her, that she loved him best. At times like this, she knew why she was destined to love him for the rest of her life. It all made sense. He was wonderful and good and caring and so, so clever.

The laughter ended as an air of seriousness returned. "Well?" he asked, his ever-shifting eyes giving away his nervousness.

"Yes," she said, a light, happy feeling hitting her. "I would like that."

"John will probably offer you his condolences when he finds out," he commented. "He often complains I'm not the easiest friend to have."

"I know."

He gave a swift nod, his usual expression of seriousness sliding into place as he clasped his hands behind him and surveyed the body lying before him. "Lestrade has a case involving three bodies found in an arson fire. The building was condemned, and the room they were found in was locked from the inside and without windows. I've brought samples and need tests run to prove my assertions correct." There was a pause. "Would you help me?"

It was his complete sincerity that had her smiling. "Give me fifteen minutes," she replied. "I just need to finish up here."

He leaned down, his eyes narrowing as he studied the female's fingertips. "Suspected suicide?" he asked.

"Yes, they claimed drug overdose—"

"No," he swiftly countered. "This was murder."

"Yes, I'd already worked that out. Fifteen more minutes, and I can prove it."

They shared a look. Something glinted in his eyes, something she'd never seen from him before. It was an odd, almost feral expression. Not anger or frustration at having his moment of deduction glory stolen. This was something earthier, and strangely heated. If he'd been anyone else, she would have thought immediately thought he wanted to shag her. But this was Sherlock Holmes, and she was Molly Hooper. The day he would want her that way would never come.

Just as quickly as it had flared, that look of his was doused and gone. He cleared his throat, nodded his head, and told her he would be waiting back at the lab when she finished. And, with that, he swept from the room. Molly blinked, unsure of what had just happened here. Whatever it was, it wasn't what she'd initially thought. She knew that. That was ridiculous. She and Sherlock were friends. That was all it would ever be. It was fine. After all, it was more than she'd had a few minutes ago. She'd take it.

_Just_ friends. That was enough. Wasn't it?


	5. Baby Steps

**Chapter Five: Baby Steps**

_Odd_.

Molly was sitting next to him on the sofa again. Close. Alarmingly so. In fact, if he extended his elbow out by an angle of even ten degrees, it would brush against the edge of the lilac robe she was wearing over her Winnie the Pooh pyjamas.

As much as he'd been slightly disturbed to come out of his mind palace to find her thusly situated next to him on the sofa, she seemed unaffected by their constrained proximity. In fact, ever since their mutual decision more than a fortnight ago to categorize their association as "friends," any previous tension on her part in regards to their interactions had all but dissipated. On one hand, this was good as it meant their conversations were no longer stilted with endless stammers, misunderstandings, and awkward pauses, all of which drove him to distraction and made his already-impatient nature steadily more impatient. On the other hand, it meant a strange, new intimacy—_for lack of a better word, not because it meant anything else, mind you_—had developed between them which he had no way of suitably classifying.

Sherlock Holmes was friends with a woman. _Very odd._ Not that gender played a role in his continuing incredulity on this front. It was more the idea of the word "friend" being used in a plural and in reference to _him_. Sherlock Holmes had _friends_? He'd only recently gotten used to the idea of accepting John in this role as well as all the rights, responsibilities, and burdens that went along with it. The idea of there being two people in existence willing to call him a friend and desiring him to do the same with them was nothing short of inexplicable. Then, to have this second person be Molly Hooper of all people…

_Yes, very odd indeed._ While he'd quickly adjusted to having a friend in John, his adjustment with Molly was decidedly dissimilar. Perhaps it was supposed to be this way? John was his _best_ friend while Molly was just a _friend_. It was a logical assumption that the two roles would feel different. It was one of the reasons Sherlock had been unwilling to agree when Molly had assumed she and he were friends in the first place. John was his friend. He knew how he felt about John. This was not how he felt about Molly and, therefore, logically, she could not be his friend. Adding "best" to the friend status certainly would explain the contrast in his feelings between John and Molly. However, the only way he could know for certain was if he had a second "just friend" to measure his feelings for Molly against. But whom? The answer came to him when talking to Mary alone the last time he'd followed John home post-case with promises of a quick fry-up.

"_Am I your friend?" he'd asked._

_Mary gave the toothy grin John always found ridiculously endearing, but Sherlock viewed as a clear manipulation tactic and said, "Of course. Why do you ask?" _

"_Well, you did shoot me. It's a fair question."_

"_True, but I also saved your life. Besides, you and John are a package deal. When I became his wife, I became your friend. Is that easy enough to understand?"_

Sherlock had nodded and went off to find John so he could tell him all about his brilliant discovery in the arson case and so he could avoid any prying Mary might want to do in terms of his new choice of flatmate. He'd not forgotten her unnatural interest in seeing him paired romantically with Molly. He'd wanted to forget, but he hadn't. _Ridiculous. Not my area._

But, in the end, his confirmation with Mary had brought him no closer to understanding all of this friendship business than before. Shouldn't his friendship with Mary feel the same as the one he shared with Molly? After all, they were both females, both clever and increasingly valuable and beneficial in otherwise sticky situations, and both willing to tolerate his idiosyncrasies for long periods of time. Yet, the little area he had marked "friends" in his mind palace, while seeming to be a quite comfortable fit for the likes of Mary Watson, could not seem to house Molly Hooper. It was almost as if his mental image of the pathologist simply refused to stay where she was put.

It made no sense. It was also highly annoying. Sherlock had surmised that their developing intimacy—_Because there REALLY was no more apt word to describe it_—somehow correlated to this friendship with Molly. But before he could prove his hypothesis correct, he needed to see how far this … intimacy … would extend. Therefore, he had concocted today's experiment.

As a rule, Molly refused to sit in the vacated chairs in front of the fireplace. He wasn't sure why this was and so far, he'd been unable to discern the answer from available data. Sherlock knew for a fact that the chairs were both serviceable and of acceptable comfort. He'd confirmed this by having Mrs. Hudson sit on them and give her opinion on their level of softness and support both in comparison to each other and by themselves. Furthermore, as with the sofa, neither chair would cause a person of Molly's short stature to be uneasy in terms of keeping her feet off the floor. With the weather heating up outside, the fireplace was not in use; so it could not have been that the situation of the seats would make her overheated. So, he had no definitive answer as to why she wouldn't sit there. And without additional data, he could formulate no further theories.

He supposed he could have simply asked Molly why she would only sit on the sofa, but what was the fun in that? Thus, he devised one, single way of gathering more information for all his current questions regarding Molly Hooper. His new flatmate had a preferred post-work ritual of showering, making a cuppa, and reclining on the far left end of the sofa to read for a few hours before bedtime. Thus, one evening when she was in the shower, he situated himself in the middle of the sofa, entered his mind palace, and waited to see what she would do.

Studies on space proximity in human beings suggest people tend to position themselves in terms of other people outside of personal space boundaries, depending on the level of intimacy established. As a rule, this is not a conscious decision, but one developed intrinsically during the formative years based primarily on cultural and familial constructs. For example, if one placed two strangers in a lift, they will naturally congregate to the opposite ends of the car. Adding two more individuals will cause the four corners of the car to become occupied. Add a fifth, and the person will situate themselves directly in the middle, equidistant from all other passengers.

Of course, the level of connection between the two subjects changes things. Lovers placed in a lift, for instance, would stand next to each other in the middle, just slightly apart. A mother and child would likely do the same. So, Sherlock decided to place himself not directly in the middle of the sofa, but slightly to the left, significantly dividing the space Molly usually occupied and increasing the level of proximity to himself. Thus, as he and Molly were not romantic partners, siblings, or mother and child, her probable reaction should be to take one look at the situation and innately drift over to occupy one of the chairs.

She hadn't. No, he'd come out of a particularly long sojourn within his mind palace to find her seated in her usual spot, less than a hair's breadth away from him. What did that mean? Was it because they were now "friends"? No, that made no sense. He felt confident Mary would have seated herself in one of the chairs. Why wouldn't Molly sit there? What correlation—if any—did this have to this blasted intimacy developing between them? And, worst of all, what did this intimacy really mean?

This wasn't odd anymore. It was frustrating and more than a bit disconcerting. It was also not very important. No, certainly not. In fact, he'd wasted far too much brain power pondering this as it was. He needed a case. Or, he needed Moriarty to make a move. Boredom. Yes, that was what this was. Otherwise, the trifling decisions Molly made every day wouldn't seem so important. He knew that. Even now, his mind was rotting in his skull from inactivity and—

Molly let out a soft laugh and turned a page. He immediately darted a glance at her and rolled his eyes. She was still immersed in the tale of the samurai zombie. The second volume of the trilogy, apparently. In addition to the hoard of sword-wielding undead on the cover, this book had a teenager holding a boomerang with eyes as brown as Molly's and hair an unflattering shade of hot pink.

_Dear Lord_, he thought. _First, she ruins my experiment and now this. _"How much longer are you going to putrefy your brain with that mindless drivel?"

Molly didn't bother to glance up as she said, "Don't worry. You can read this one when I'm done."

_What?_ "Why on earth would you think I'd want to?"

"Because you read the first one."

"I did not!" _How did she know?_ He'd been so careful.

She turned to look at him, a mocking little grin on her face even as her arm accidentally grazed his shirt.

"Really?" she asked. "I would stop on chapter thirteen, put in the bookmark to hold my place, and return to find it mysteriously residing in chapter twenty-two. How else would you explain that?"

His eyes darted away. "Perhaps you merely forgot where you were or the bookmark slipped."

"It happened more than once. I'm not as good as you, but even I know there's only one deduction there: Someone else was reading my book."

He was developing a hang nail. _How unfortunate_, he thought as he stared down at it. "You can't assume it's me. Mrs. Hudson is constantly in here. She likes to read. Balance of probability says it's her."

"She reads the tabloids, not books. And apparently, she saw you reading the novel in question on _two_ occasions when she came to bring your morning tea. I know. I asked her."

_Damn. _Clearly, he was going to have to have a discussion with his landlady about when to keep her mouth shut. He was cornered, but that didn't mean he was about to admit to anything.

"Nonetheless, it doesn't change the fact that it's mindless drivel. If you are so in need of reading material, I have several medical journals which will whet your appetite and not leave your intellect irreversibly damaged."

The book rose again. "No, thanks. I'm constantly reading that stuff at work. It's nice to rest my mind a bit when I get home."

_Rest her mind?_ How did one even do that? He shook his head in dismay. What must it be like to have a brain such as that? To be so blessedly monotonous all the time? He didn't believe he'd know how to cope. Just thinking about it was tedious. He would have said all of this to her, but living with John and his recent run-ins with Molly's temper had taught him it was sometimes better to keep his opinions on the subject of one's intelligence or lack thereof to himself.

She reached over and patted his elbow. "I'm almost done. You can read it tonight. Be patient."

Her condescending tone left him mortified. Worse, he was more than a little angry at himself for feeling an ounce of excitement at the prospect of reading that twaddle. What was the world coming to? Further proof his brain was dying more and more every second. Didn't she understand that? He refused to be on the defensive here when the problem was plainly her. "Your pyjamas are ludicrous. Winnie the Pooh? You're a grown-up. Dress like one."

She seemed taken aback for a moment before looking down at herself. "Grown-ups can like Winnie the Pooh."

"Evidently, each of the characters embodies a different mental illness. Christopher Robin represents schizophrenia, Piglet represents Social Anxiety Disorder, Eeyore represents depression, Tiger represents Attention Deficit Disorder, Pooh represents an eating disorder associated with low self-esteem, Rabbit is Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Kanga and Roo represent Dissociative Personality Disorder, and Owl represents dyslexia. What do you think of that?"

"I think for a man who claims to be worried about mindless drivel, you spend too much time reading on the internet."

_Point, Hooper._ Sherlock, however, was far from conceding defeat in this verbal sparring match. He ran his gaze over her, stopping at the pink, porcine face beaming at him from the cuff of her pyjama pants. "Suddenly, your appreciation for Piglet speaks volumes."

"Remind me to buy you a stuffed Tiger for Christmas, will you?" She patted him on the elbow again before returning her attention to the book.

Now he was to be patronized _and_ ignored? _This is what friendship gets you?_ His frustration reached epic proportions. "Why are you sitting here?"

Molly jerked her head around at him. "Why shouldn't I be sitting here?" she asked, appearing wary and suddenly uncomfortable. Just like that, he felt the warm air of intimacy between them shift to something cooler. _Good. _That, at least, he could understand.

He gestured towards the fireplace. "There are two vacant seats available. Why sit _here_?"

"I like to sit here."

That was all she said. Like it explained anything. "_I_ was sitting here."

She blinked and closed the book in her lap. "Am I disturbing you? You were in your mind palace. I didn't think you'd be bothered."

They were getting nowhere. He pointed at the sofa. "Molly, you always sit in that exact spot. Every day. Every night. Why?"

"I like to sit here."

Yes, they'd already covered that. Was she trying to drive him mad? "I was sitting here. You should have sat over there," he snapped, pointing towards the seats.

Molly quickly shuffled to her feet. He knew from the way her face had fallen that he'd said something wrong, but for the life of him, he didn't have a clue what it was. He wanted a simple answer. That was all. Couldn't she understand? Not knowing was making him insane.

But she evidently didn't understand. Without a word, she turned to walk out the door and up to her bedroom. _Not good._

"Molly," he called before she could escape. He didn't want to fight with her. He abhorred fighting with her. Sparring? Yes, he would spar with her any day. But fighting? So much emotion and talk of … feelings. No, he didn't want that. Especially not with her. "I … didn't mean to offend you in whatever way I might have done so. I merely asked because I wanted information. Why won't you sit in those chairs? Is there a problem with them?"

She turned about. Her face was pale, her expression still circumspect. But thankfully, she wasn't teary-eyed. He wouldn't have been able to fathom how to handle that.

"There's no problem with them," she answered.

Unquestionably there was. There had to be. _Why is she being so obstinate? _He shot to his feet and went over to the one he usually occupied, flouncing down into it. "What is wrong with this one?" He wiggled in it a few times. "It's comfortable, serviceable, and has adequate back support. Yet, you've never sat here. Not once in all the time you've resided in this flat. Why?"

Her head cocked to the side as she regarded him as if he were acting strangely, which he wasn't.

"That's _your_ chair, Sherlock."

"All the furniture belongs to me."

"Yes, but that is your favorite chair. Everyone knows that."

Finally, they were getting somewhere! He pointed to the chair across from him. "And that one? You could sit there, but you don't."

"That's John's chair."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he studied her. "John no longer lives here."

She shrugged, a becoming blush blooming in her cheeks. "It's still his chair."

Then, with this last bit of data, a wave of understanding flooded his brain. The deluge brought with it the usual heady sensations of relief mixed with excitement and supreme satisfaction. However, he couldn't fully enjoy himself because everything was also tinged with something else. Pity. For Molly. Did she really think she couldn't sit where she wanted? This was her home. She should be comfortable. Even though he preferred to sit in this chair, it did not mean no one else could do so. When John had lived with him, he'd sat here occasionally. Sherlock knew he wasn't that territorial when it came to furniture. But Molly plainly had this impression. Where had she gotten it and how far did it extend?

Before he could formulate how to deal with this, the door was opened by Mary Watson. "Knock, knock, you two," she said. "We finally made it. Sorry we're late."

John came in behind her, weighted down with a load of sundry, brightly-colored articles. The most important of their bundles was swaddled in a blanket-covered transport device. Molly immediately put down her book and walked over to greet them all. Sherlock, however, didn't bother.

John settled the carrier on the sofa and began the arduous task of divesting himself of the rest of his bounty. Sherlock's gaze darted to the carrier, taking note of the movement visible beneath the blanket before turning to take in an exhausted-looking Mrs. Watson, who was excitedly chatting with Molly.

"I was worried you two might have changed your mind," Molly was saying. "New parents, I'm told, are often fearful of leaving their little one behind, even if just for a bit."

"Are you sure you don't mind watching her?" John asked, carefully lifting the pink blanket away to reveal his daughter. He lifted the baby, taking the time to arrange her so she was length-wise in his arms, one hand covering the back of her head.

"I'm honored you would ask me." Molly wandered closer to gaze at the wiggling, bald bundle in his partner's arms. "I don't often get to interact with babies, you know. Well, not live ones at any rate. Occupational hazard, I'm afraid." She paused, as what she'd said seemed to hit her. "Oh, I'm sorry. That was—"

_Oh, dear Lord. She's digging herself in deeper._ "Molly, stop talking," he said.

"Yeah." She flushed, ducked her head, and gave a laugh. "Sorry."

"How long will you be gone, John?" Sherlock asked, uneasily eyeing the infant as well as all of the baggage she apparently came with. How many things could one small human need? He hadn't been at all confident about Molly undertaking this particular endeavor when she'd told him of her plans. Now that the child in question was actually in his flat, he felt decidedly less confident.

"An hour. Maybe two," Mary said as she took the baby from John and approached Sherlock. Without any by-your-leave, she gently laid the creature on his chest. He immediately stiffened, unsure if he should move, but unwilling to jostle it. When the baby moved on its own, he had no choice but to cuddle the thing against him. He cupped his hand against the child's head, as he'd witnessed John doing earlier, but beyond wrapping his free arm awkwardly around the torso, was unsure of what else to do. The frilly, yellow dress they'd put the child in bunched up around him, making things decidedly worse.

This did not stop him from glaring at the mother. "What do you think you're doing?" he hissed. "Take it back!"

"No." She grinned at him, unrepentant. "Abigail wishes to meet her Uncle Sherlock properly. Say hello."

"I've met her properly. I came to visit you in hospital when you had her, did I not?"

"You also refuse to hold her. She's nearly a month old, Sherlock. It's time to get over your aversion to babies. You like older children just fine. I don't see the problem." She removed his hand from the miniature torso and placed it on the child's nappy-covered bottom. "Abby is going to be an important part of your life. Time to start getting used to her. Otherwise, you'll hurt her feelings."

He looked down. The fragile creature in his arms rustled against him, tiny, rosebud lips quivering gently and blue eyes blinking back to him. "She's a baby. She won't care."

"You're her godfather. Believe me, she'll care."

"Shhh, you two. You'll upset her," Molly said, sweeping in to rescue him from the child.

_Thank God_. He sighed and relaxed in his chair.

Molly gently jiggled the infant in her arms. "Hello, darling girl. How are you? You've grown. I told you to stop that, didn't I?"

She held the baby out in front of her, staring down at her as if she were the most delightful thing in the world. Sherlock was amazed at Molly's grace in the situation. Her movements were swift and smooth. The only time he'd seen her thus was in the depths of a post-mortem. Then, there was her expression. He'd never seen her look so happy, so … radiant. At first glance, one would have thought the child she was holding was her own.

_Beautiful._ The second the word entered his mind in terms of describing Molly, he shot to his feet, needing to put some distance between them. This was absurd. There were more important things to think about. He walked over to John, who'd been watching them all with a bemused expression. _Time to get rid of that._

"I don't think leaving the child here is a good idea."

"Her name is Abby, Sherlock. It isn't that hard to say, is it?" John asked, keeping his attention on the three females still in front of the fireplace.

Sherlock's phone buzzed. Text from Mycroft.

_A baby and Miss Hooper in your flat now, Sherlock? How domestic you've become. What's next? House shopping?_

Sherlock gritted his teeth and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"What is it? Moriarty?" John asked.

_I wish._ "No, only my boorish brother. Unfortunately, Moriarty doesn't seem inclined to engage me at present, a fact I find curiouser and curiouser as time goes on."

This was true. Nearly two months after what most of Britain had termed as "the Miss Me Shocker," the case was at a dead end. They had uncovered how the hacking had occurred, but were at a loss as to who exactly was behind it or what the overall plan was. Sherlock had his ideas, of course, but until another move was made, there was nothing to be done but wait. Patience was key when it came to the long game. Still, at a time like this, Sherlock was not above using the fear associated with Moriarty for his own purposes. "However, just because he has not yet contacted me does not mean he won't. Do you really think my flat is the best place to leave your newborn child?"

"Yes," Mary swiftly answered. "No matter where we go, we risk being a target for Moriarty. He knows John is the fulcrum for you. He'd be my main target if I were after you. You'd do anything to rescue him."

Sherlock shared a look with Molly. Her eyebrow rose as if to say _See? John, not me._ He flicked his gaze back to Mary.

"Thank you, darling. It's nice to be the damsel in distress here," John grumbled sardonically. "I would like to point out to anyone who cares that I am a war veteran and quite a good shot with a gun. I could save myself. In fact, I have saved Sherlock's life many times."

Mary waved this away. "Getting his hands on me or Abby would merely be icing on the cake. Twisting the knife that's twisting Sherlock. That kind of thing. At least here there's Mycroft's surveillance and protection. Seems to me there's no safer place in London for our child." She grinned. "Maybe we'll take a page from Molly's book and move in as well."

"No room," Sherlock said.

"There's always 221C." Mary smiled. "Or we could take John's old room. Molly could sleep in your bed." Before he could even divine a reply to this scandalous statement, she continued, "John says you kip on the sofa when you're on a case more often than you use your bedroom. Shouldn't be an issue, right?"

Sherlock recognized a trap when he saw one. If Mary's tone hadn't given her away, that mocking grin would have done so. He narrowed his eyes to make his displeasure known. Mary winked in retaliation.

"I could sleep on the sofa. I wouldn't want to put Sherlock out," Molly offered, smiling down at the baby in her arms and clearly unaware all of the subtext. "At least, no more than I already have."

"Mary," John said, not missing anything as he darted glances between his wife and his partner, "we should get going if we are going to get back in a reasonable amount of time. I'm sure Molly has to work in the morning and doesn't relish being up all night with Abby."

"I'm off tomorrow," Molly answered. "Take as long as you like."

"Thank you again for watching her," Mary said. "We have everything you need over there. I pumped plenty of milk before we came. You'll need to put it in the fridge. Just heat the bottle up in some hot water and test it on your wrist before you feed her. She ate before we got here, so she should just want to sleep." Mary came over and kissed her daughter's head. "Goodbye, my love. Be good for your Aunt Molly."

"Aunt Molly?" Molly asked.

Sherlock was pleased to see she wasn't taking this aunt business any better than he was taking being an uncle.

"Do you not want to be?" John asked.

Mary interrupted before Molly could answer. "I know you and I aren't close, but you've been John's friend for years and I thought—"

"No, I think it's lovely. I just—I never thought … I don't have any siblings, you see—at least not any …" She looked down at the child in her arms and then back up at Mary and John, tears welling in her eyes. "Thank you. I'm honored."

"Good," Mary said, sending a harsh look at Sherlock. "I wish all our friends felt that way."

John joined in. "We should only be a gone a few hours, Molly. Dinner at La Mancha, and then a trip to Tesco. Call if you have any problems."

"Don't let Sherlock make you do all the work," Mary said. "He is, after all, her godfather."

John added, "If he changes a nappy, make sure to video it. I promised Greg we'd send it to him."

Sherlock remembered back to the time when his only friend had been a skull on the mantelpiece and he'd wondered if that were a bad thing. Now, he knew for certain it wasn't. The skull would never have put him through the likes of this.

After an absurdly long list of dos and don'ts from John which consisted of such gems as "No firearms around the baby" and "If you experiment on my child, Sherlock, I will kill you," the couple departed the flat. With all the trouble they'd stirred up since they got here, Sherlock was so happy to see them go he escorted them to the door himself and all but slammed it in their faces.

Unfortunately, his happiness was supplanted with something else the second he turned from the door and spied Molly in her spot on the sofa, cooing at the baby in her arms. She stopped and looked up at him, smiling.

He was immediately hit with a swooshing clench in his stomach mixed with a sense of elation that, for once, nothing to do with a deduction. The combination was unquestionably unsettling. Without making a conscious decision to do so, he smiled back at her and held her gaze, relaxing into the depths of her pleasant, brown eyes.

It was only when he realized what he was doing, of course, that he freaked out.


	6. Unsung Hero

**Chapter Six: Unsung Hero**

Sherlock looked like he'd been hit in the face with a sledgehammer. Molly wasn't sure what had happened. A minute ago, he'd been smiling at her. Was he panicking about the baby being here?

"Don't worry," she said. "I'll take care of Abby all on my own. You won't be inconvenienced in the slightest, and I certainly won't ask you to change any soiled nappies." Just the image of that had her biting her lip to staunch her mirth.

He gave a stiff nod and zoomed away from the door and into the kitchen with a speed she'd rarely seen—even from him. She looked down at the child she held. How could anyone be afraid of her? She was so beautiful. Most people believed all babies to be worthy of that adjective, but Abby Watson actually deserved it. From her chubby cheeks and blue eyes down to her tiny feet encased in white, lacey socks, she was the most beautiful baby who'd ever been born. The dress she wore and the flowery, stretchy headband circling her bald head only added to her splendor.

Molly ran a finger lightly over one of the child's plump cheeks and inhaled. The scent of powder, mother's milk, and new infant skin was so nice. She wanted to rain kisses along Abby's face, but she knew that was hardly sanitary or something one couldn't do unless one was the parent. So, she settled for laying the baby out in her lap, examining each detail.

A button nose, strong chin like her father; big eyes like her mother, ten little fingers, five currently curled around Molly's thumb; and the cutest pint-sized grunts ever to be uttered in creation. Molly had never fallen in love so hard before, but she knew she had with this one.

"You like babies."

She looked up. Sherlock was back, standing at the edge of the kitchen, a cup of tea in his hand.

"Yes," she said.

"You were made to be someone's mother."

She gaped at him. It such an unexpected comment coming from Sherlock. Moreover, it made her uneasy. She couldn't agree with him. In fact, she was pretty sure she was the last woman who should be anyone's mother.

"Thank you," she said, finally. "I think."

There was another long moment of silence. She filled it by smiling down at Abby, who was blinking sleepily back at her. Molly was so caught up in what she was doing, she almost forgot who was watching her.

"Tom could have given you children. No doubt, he would have been willing to do whatever you liked in that area."

Molly didn't look up this time. Sherlock was fishing. She knew this tactic well. Besides the day when she'd slapped him, he hadn't mentioned her broken engagement or her ex-fiancé. Honestly, she hadn't thought he'd cared. She'd been very relieved not to have to talk about it. The weeks living with Meena had been exhausting because there had been very little time her friend hadn't wanted to talk about Tom.

"I am sure he could and would have," she said.

Abby had drifted off; so she placed her softly back in the carrier. Folding the pink blanket around her, Molly picked up the carrier and set it at her feet before grabbing her book. Tucking her feet under herself, she settled into her place back on the sofa and started to read, intent on ignoring Sherlock and this conversation. Hopefully, he would find something else to occupy himself with soon.

Even as her eyes roved over the words, she could feel his continued stare. These last few days especially, it had seemed as if he had her under a microscope—as if she were the most fascinating thing he'd ever come across. It was unsettling being in the spotlight of his attention for this long. He needed a case. That is what this was.

The sooner the better. How else could one explain his need to know why she didn't sit in the chairs? Why would he care? Moreover, how could he think she would trespass on something that obviously belonged to him and John? John was the most important person in Sherlock's life. Always would be. He should be, and she respected that as much as Mary unmistakably did. Moreover, she was well versed on her place in Sherlock's life. The only place she would ever have.

Yet, she had forced herself into this flat and even though he'd never complained about that, she'd never forgotten it. The second Moriarty was dealt with, she'd get her own place again and leave him be. Go back to just being Molly the pathologist. They would talk occasionally and do experiments, and Sherlock would show up with some exciting case out of the blue. Nothing more, nothing less.

No doubt, he'd be grateful to have her gone out from under him. For her part, Molly knew she'd miss him—even with all the things he did every day that she didn't understand or that irritated her to no end. They had developed quite a rapport with each other in the time they'd been flatmates. There were times when she felt quite comfortable at his side, as if she belonged here with him. It was ridiculous, of course, but true.

She'd thought living with him would help her to stop loving him. If anything, it made it all worse. The awkwardness between them had eased, leaving only two people who seemed to understand each other quite well. Unconsciously, they moved around each other in the flat as if in a choreographed dance. It was odd. Living with Tom, she'd felt like they were constantly stepping over each other. They'd blamed the lack of adequate space in their flat, but now she wasn't so sure.

Additionally, Sherlock proved to be quite a considerate person if one gave him the chance. On her mornings off, he'd be up drinking his tea, having already poured a cup for her. She'd make toast—enough for both of them—and take her usual seat on the sofa. She never offered him any; she never had to. Sooner or later, he would meander over to his place at the other end of the sofa. Taking his share, he'd always promptly thank her. Then, he'd eat his toast and think or eat his toast and complain about some issue bothering him or eat his toast and try to get her to spar with him.

Molly knew these sparring sessions were just ways for him to alleviate boredom. She didn't mind because she'd actually begun to enjoy them. It was fun trying to stay two steps ahead of a man of his brilliance. No wonder John had lived with him as long as he had. When she won one of their trivial battles—which wasn't as often as she would have liked—it was always evident. Sherlock would narrow his eyes at her and look away, sulking, and swiftly change of the subject.

Then there was the talking. Oh, the talks they had! Here was the one man who, instead of grimacing and asking her not to overshare the grotesque details of the day's autopsies, was very curious and demanded to know everything. More than one night she had stayed up too late describing the enlarged liver of one body or the strange stomach contents she'd found in another. There were also plenty of times that she shared her day with him only to find him gazing off into space, evidently having bolted into his mind palace. At first, she'd stopped talking, mortified that she would be so boring he'd felt the need to escape. Then, after a few moments of silence, he would come back to himself and demand to know why she'd gone quiet. She'd blush and, after some prodding on his part, begin her story again.

There were annoyances, of course. His recent fondness for studying her was a good example. Also, the nonstop experiments he conducted on any and everything. She was convinced he'd tried to put something in her tea once. There was a curiosity in his expression as he watched her that clued her in. So, when Mrs. Hudson bustled in to do her morning cleaning and started lecturing Sherlock for his inability to pick up after himself, Molly used the distraction to slip off to the kitchen and poured it down the sink. The obvious disappointment on his face when she failed to show any reaction for the rest of the afternoon told her she was right to be suspicious. The next morning, in an attempt to put a stop to such foolishness for once and for all—and also because the man had been on a case for four days straight without sleep—she'd retaliated by dissolving a high-dose sleeping pill in his tea. Twelve hours later, he'd awoken in his bed, stomped into the lounge, and demanded an apology.

_"You first," she'd taunted. _

_ "You drugged me," he seethed. "I'm a recovering addict. You can't do that."_

_ "It wasn't heroin or morphine. It was a sleeping pill. Non-habit forming. I checked."_

"_You still shouldn't have done it."_

"_Don't put anything in my food, and I'll be glad to do the same. Besides, you needed the rest."_

He'd grumbled and slammed back into his bedroom, refusing to talk to her for the rest of the day. But, he'd never again tampered with her food. When John found out, he'd laughed so hard he nearly fell on the floor.

Sherlock's sudden movement away from the kitchen startled her from her reverie, bringing her back into the current situation at hand.

Instead of taking a seat in his chair as far away from the baby as possible, he occupied the other end of the sofa. He sat sideways, folding his legs under him crossways as if he were a child. He balanced his teacup on his knee as he continued to watch her.

If he made one more crack about her choice of reading material, she was going to call Mrs. Hudson up here to prove he'd been reading the first novel. That would shut him up for sure. It didn't matter that it was after eight in the evening and well past the time the landlady indulged in her "herbal soothers." Molly had no qualms disturbing the old girl if the situation called for it.

"He wanted to marry you."

_What? Who? Oh, he's talking about Tom again._ "It doesn't matter now," she said.

"You wanted to marry him, at least enough to agree to his proposal and to wear his ring."

He was not going to let this go. "Sherlock, what is it you want to know? Just get to the point."

He frowned at her in the way he usually reserved for clients who were annoying him. Molly didn't care. He was the one prying here, not her. Did she ask about his parents or his childhood or his impertinent girlfriend who'd been plastered all over the papers? No, she minded her own business. Why couldn't he do the same?

"My point," he said, "is that you obviously want to be a wife and mother. Yet, a man comes into your life who can provide you with all you desire and you reject him."

"You're wrong."

"How?"

"Many ways."

"How?" he demanded again.

She took a deep breath. "He couldn't give me what I desire. I thought he could. I told myself he could every day, but he couldn't." She released the breath heavily as she raised her eyes to meet his. "He couldn't."

"What do you desire that he couldn't give you?"

"Not what. Who." She held his gaze as she said this, daring him to ask the next question.

W_ho do you desire? _

If he asked, she would have told him. No fear, no stammering, no hiding. Just blunt honesty. No doubt, it would have been freeing to speak the words aloud. Of course, he'd meet her blunt honesty with equally blunt rejection. She knew that. How could he not? But that could be a good thing. Maybe blunt rejection would make her stop feeling this way. Then, they really would just be friends. That's all she wanted. Friendship with Sherlock. They'd be good as friends. She knew it.

He blinked and, bringing his teacup up to his mouth, he ducked behind it by taking a loud gulp. When he was done, he got to his feet, seeming intent on returning to the kitchen. He made it halfway across the living area before he stopped, his back to her. "Did you love him?" he asked.

A wound she'd been trying to heal burst open inside of her. Sherlock had no right to that information. He never would. "Did you love Janine?" she countered.

"No," he said, continuing into the kitchen without a backwards glance.

She heard the delicate chink of the cup being put into the sink, the water running, and then his soft footsteps padding back to her. The determined expression on his face told her he wasn't going to stop his questions. He was committed to his mission—whatever it was—but she wasn't interested in cooperating. So, before he could ask his next question or return to his previous one, she said, "You proposed to her."

"Yes," he said, resuming his place on the sofa. "For a case. I had no intention of following through with an actual marriage. That would have been absurd."

That_ would have been absurd_, she thought. _Not the proposing to someone for a case part. _How fascinatingly lopsided his moral compass was.

Sherlock's tone when he spoke was almost boastful. It would have felt no different than if he'd jerked open his pale blue dressing gown and shown her he was wearing a t-shirt that said "Proud Sociopath and Loving it!" But Molly could see past this. She knew why he was acting this way. He was warning her.

_You may want me, Molly Hooper, but don't ever think you'll have me. I'm wild, untamed. I'm dangerous. No one in their right mind would truly want me._

He was protecting her. Worse, it only made her want him more. She groaned softly to herself and planted her nose back in the book. Maybe he'd go back into his mind palace, and they could forget all about this.

"Did you love Tom?"

Her gaze flew to him, but before she could even gather herself enough to form a reply, Abby began fretting in her seat. Putting down her book, Molly lifted the child up. "What is it, love? You can't be hungry. Are you wet?"

The nappy didn't feel full, but Molly decided to check just to be sure. Taking the blanket, she smoothed it on the sofa between her and Sherlock and placed the baby there.

"You're not changing her here, are you?"

"Where would you have me do it?" she asked. "Your bedroom?"

He blanched. "Certainly not."

"Hand me the pink bag over there. No doubt, it has nappies and wipes."

He completed his assigned task and scooted to the far end of the sofa. Molly let out a little chuckle as she looked down at a fussy Abby. "Your Uncle Sherlock is afraid of you, sweet girl. Grisly murders or vicious psychopaths? No. Soiled nappies? Oh, dear God, yes."

Abby stopped fussing to stare up at her, as if she were appalled by the very idea. Molly laughed again and began unstrapping the tapes of the nappy. A few minutes later, the baby was all clean, dry, and soothed again.

She turned the baby to face him, but didn't pick her up. "Watch her a moment, will you?" she asked, intent on putting the befouled nappy in the rubbish bin.

Sherlock's jaw dropped open. "You said I didn't have to do anything."

"Either watch her so she doesn't fall off the sofa or take this to the bin. Which is it?"

His blue-green eyes flew back and forth between the wrapped white object in her hand and Abby lying between them. Finally, he sighed and said, "I'll take her."

She smiled. "Her name is Abby."

And, with that, she got up and went into the kitchen. She took a minute to wash her hands before returning to the lounge. Sherlock was looking down at the baby, who was staring back at him. His hand came down until one, long finger reached out to touch Abby's hand. Tiny fingers stretched and opened before closing around him. Sherlock gasped in wonder.

Molly edged closer to them, not wanting to disturb this stunning scene. She wasn't sure who was more wonderstruck: Sherlock by the baby or the baby by Sherlock. The two beings ogled at each other, all the while continuing their physical connection.

Sherlock's head popped up as she got within his eye line. "Her grip is so strong." His tone belied his amazement.

Molly smiled. "Yes, it is."

He began to pull away. "Don't," Molly said, reaching out to stop his hand. The second her skin touched his, they both froze. There they were. Him holding the baby's hand while she held his. Her gaze caught and held Sherlock's. If he'd been anyone else, she would have given in to the urge to lean over and kiss him. The moment more than called for it. But he was Sherlock, and he wouldn't take that well. So, she released his hand and slipped back.

He opened his mouth as if to protest, but closed it just as quickly, a frown marring his too-handsome face and cupid's bow lips.

"Sher—" She croaked; then coughed to get her voice working properly. "Sherlock, she's your goddaughter. I know you're not entirely comfortable with that, but it's still true. John and Mary aren't here. Just me. Visit with her. I won't mock you."

"I know you won't," he replied. "But I'm not meant for this. I'm not like you or John or Mary. Not my area." But even as he said this, he didn't release the baby. Instead, he looked back down at her.

"I never took you for a coward, Sherlock Holmes," Molly chided.

One eyebrow arched at her. "I know what you're doing."

She brought her knees up against her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Resting her chin on them, she said, "And what is that?"

"You're trying to cajole me into picking her up."

She shrugged. "Don't hold her then. Up to you."

He stared at her, long and hard. "This will never be my area, Molly." _I'm not Tom._ He hadn't said it, but it was still there, between them.

He was warning her again. "Not my area either," she said, squeezing her knees against her to staunch the pain he was giving her.

"Liar. As I said before, you were meant to be someone's mother."

"The longer I live with you, the longer I think I'm meant to be _your _mother," she said, hoping to throw him off center enough so they could stop talking about this. "You definitely need someone around to keep you from trouble."

"That's why I have John."

She laughed. "So John is your mother? Boy, have the rumors about you two really gotten that one wrong."

He rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the child between them. "She seems to be salivating all over herself. Should we do something about that?"

Molly reached down to rummage through the bag again, coming out with another wipe, which she used to clean Abby's face. Once she was done, Sherlock took his hand back from the baby. "She's so small."

"So were you once I would imagine."

"Yes, I have seen pictures verifying this," he said. "My mother has a particularly offensive one of me in the buff with nothing but a rubber duck covering my wobbly bits. It's Mycroft's favorite." He grimaced. "I shall relish burning it to ashes one day."

_Not until I see it, you won't, _she thought. "Don't you dare. I bet you were a darling boy. Your mother would be heartbroken."

When Abby began to grow restless and whimper, Molly picked her up. After a few moments, the crying became more insistent. She warmed a bottle, wondering if the baby were hungry. However, a few tries at feeding yielded no success. Abby's cries grew louder and angrier.

When her shrieks reached a rather harsh decibel, Sherlock abandoned the sofa and collapsed into his usual seat. "Can't you do something?"

"What would you suggest?" Molly called back, at her wit's end. "She's dry and apparently not hungry. I'm all out of ideas. I've even tried the dummy. She keeps spitting it out."

"Should we call Mary and John? Or Mrs. Hudson at least?"

Molly rose from the sofa, joggling and shushing the baby in her arms. "John and Mary have only been gone an hour. We're not calling them. As for Mrs. Hudson, I would imagine if she hasn't come up here to investigate a baby screaming in your flat, she's already asleep for the evening."

When the cries continued, Molly added pacing to the joggling and shushing, something which seemed to only make the child calm slightly. She settled Abby against her shoulder, patting her back. Maybe this was gas on her stomach.

Another few minutes of incessant wailing later, Sherlock pleaded, "Do _something_, woman!"

Without thought, Molly opened her mouth and started singing. "I remember when rock was young. Me and Susie had so much fun. Holding hands and skimming stones …" She past the chorus of "Crocodile Rock" and was deep into the "La la's" before Sherlock interrupted.

"What on earth is that caterwauling you're doing?"

"Elton John. 'Crocodile Rock.' 1972," she said before continuing where she left off.

"Cease that this instant. It sounds like a cat was run over by a cab."

The baby started crying again, reminding Molly of the peace that had come from her singing. "It was working though, wasn't it?" she asked and launched into another verse. When she got to the chorus this time, she pulled Abby from her shoulder and stared down at her, dancing them both about gently. The baby seemed to like this when paired in conjunction with the "La la" section of the song.

It was only when Molly finished the song that Abby objected again.

"Well, don't stop now," Sherlock said.

Molly flushed, mortified that she had just done all of this in the presence of Sherlock Holmes. But the child in her arms didn't seem to care about humiliation. Therefore, Molly began again, reclining Abby against her neck and chest patting her little back as she danced around the room. Sherlock was watching them both, a peculiar, little smile on his face but Molly didn't care. Abby had ceased crying. That was all that mattered.

Finally, when Molly had started the song for a third time, Abby rewarded her with a healthy burp. This was followed moments later with an unpleasant warm, wet sensation running down Molly's neck, shoulder and chest. A pronounced, fetid odor came seconds later. The little gurgling sound following this wasn't good either. Molly pulled the infant back to find herself the unwelcome recipient of baby vomit.

But from the silence coming from the baby in her arms, Molly knew she'd at last become acquainted with the reason for Abby's distress. Cleaning the little one's face and a few spots on her dress, Molly handed the child off to Sherlock, who protested.

"You can't expect me to—"

"I do, and I can," she said, peeling off her bathrobe ever so carefully. The white and clear puke stain had already spread over her chest and settled beneath her robe and into her pyjama top. The smell was the worst part. It nearly made her want to gag. "I have to get cleaned up. She should be fine now."

"Molly, if this child vomits on me—"

"It won't be worst thing that's ever happened to you, will it?" she said, walking into the bathroom without another word. But before she shut the door, she could have sworn she heard Sherlock say. "'I'll take care of Abby all on my own, Sherlock. You won't be inconvenienced in the slightest, Sherlock.' And now look at me!"

One quick bath later, she realized she had no clean clothes to put on. They were all in her bedroom. She couldn't run through the flat in nothing but a towel, and she was positive asking Sherlock to fetch her something was out of the question. Even if he agreed, she didn't like the idea of him pawing through her undergarments and nightwear.

One of Sherlock's dressing gowns was hanging on the back of the bathroom door, so she slung it on after toweling off. That was when she noticed the low, vibrating cadence coming from the living area. She paused, wondering what was going on out there. She thought she heard the baby crying while she'd been in the tub, but the shrieks had seemed to cease nearly as quickly as they had begun. The sound she heard now was clearly Sherlock's deep voice, but she couldn't really place what was being said. Balling her dirty clothes up, she slipped out of the bathroom and stopped short as she came upon the most hilarious and enthralling sight. Honestly, if she hadn't already been in love with the man, this certainly would have done the trick.

Sherlock Holmes, the man who'd claimed babies weren't his "area," was waltzing around his louonge with Abby in his arms … singing.


	7. Mad Dash

**Chapter Seven: Mad Dash**

_Oh, for heaven's sake!_ The second he realized Molly was watching him sing and dance around with Abby, Sherlock halted. He knew he probably looked absurd to her, and his pride refused to allow him to continue or to give a hint of the mortification he was feeling. He didn't know why he cared how he looked to her. He only knew he did, and he hated that. Glancing up, he awkwardly held the child out, mutely demanding Molly reclaim her troublesome charge.

Thankfully, the charge in particular did not protest this as she was sound asleep.

Molly dropped the bundle of clothes she'd been holding and immediately took the baby in her arms, cuddling Abby close to her chest. But, even though she had the child, his flatmate's attention was firmly fixed on him.

Feeling his mortification rising and desperately needing to change the subject, he blurted out, "You're wearing my dressing gown."

It was easy to discern that she was naked beneath the deep green material as well as why she was wearing it. Of course, she hadn't taken clothes with her into the bath and a towel was not appropriate attire to be walking about in the flat. Therefore, she had claimed his robe as a covering until she could make it back to her bedroom.

He expected Molly to make this explanation to him, but she didn't. Instead, she blurted out something of her own. "You know the lyrics to 'Crocodile Rock'?"

Unwillingly, a blush heated his cheeks. "You sang it three times in a row, Molly. Any dullard could have gotten the words right after that." He turned from her and, going to his chair, tossed himself down into it. "Never fear. I shall be deleting the words from my mind very shortly." _Along with the rest of this infernal night._

"You got the beat of the music wrong," she said.

He glared at her. Why wasn't she letting this go? "I did not. I changed it so it befit a waltz as I was waltzing."

"Is that what you were doing?" Her teeth sank into her bottom lip. _Obviously fighting off a laugh._

"Of course. I wasn't about to hop around chaotically like you were. If one is going to dance, they should at least do it properly," he snapped. "Do you not recognize the waltz when you see it?"

She shrugged and stooped down to place the sleeping infant in her carrier. Settling the child in, Molly rose to face him again. "Sherlock, there's no need to be distressed. I found the sight of you waltzing with the baby to be lovely and sweet."

_Good Lord!_ Turning to stare at the empty fireplace, he groaned and slammed his head against the back of his chair. There were few words a man wanted to have used to describe his actions. "Lovely" and "sweet" did not make the list. "Abby would not cease crying. I did only what was needed. You were taking entirely too long in your bath."

"You called her Abby."

She said that as though it was something for which one should be astonished. "That is her name, is it not?" he countered.

Molly went blissfully silent. A minute later, however, she approached his chair and squatting down until she was eye-level with him, murmured, "I don't know how to waltz."

He surveyed her, long and hard. She was trying to ease his mortification by admitting something embarrassing about herself. He didn't like ploys to make him feel better, especially when this particular ploy was actually working. Yet, through it all, he couldn't help himself from asking, "Why not?"

She shrugged. "Mum died when I was nine. Only had my dad to raise me from then on. It just wasn't something that came up. But you dance beautifully. So elegant. Any woman would be honored to have you as a partner." She smiled as she said this, her brown eyes softening as she looked at him, which caused his stomach to do another one of those uncomfortable flips. He smiled back and sighed, his eyes roving over her face, down the graceful slope of her neck, past the delicate arch of her exposed clavicle, and down to the gentle swell of her breasts.

When he realized he was staring and what exactly he was staring at, he curtly looked away, fisting his hands around the arms of his chair. "Get dressed," he ordered. "John and Mary will be back soon. You wouldn't want them to see you like … that."

"Oh … Oh, yes, of course."

He felt the air stir as she shot to her feet and heard the light footsteps as she stumbled back. "Will you—"

"Yes," he clipped, knowing she was asking if he would watch Abby while she dressed. At this point, he would have agreed to anything to get her gone.

"Thanks," she said.

From the scrambled sound of her feet going upstairs, he knew she'd left. Yet, the smell of her soap remained. Lavender mixed with sandalwood and a faint hint of citrus. It made him feel giddy and left his heart hammering in his chest. _What is happening to me?_ He hadn't felt this off since that one time all those years ago when he'd nearly overdosed. Even then, he'd been so overcome with the heroine coursing through his system, he hadn't really minded the off feeling. This time was decidedly different.

When he couldn't stand the scent anymore, he fled to the kitchen to make himself another cup of tea. He didn't really want it, but it was better than just sitting there inhaling insanity. Once there, he shifted about the kitchen, slamming cabinet doors and filling the kettle.

Sherlock needed a case. Badly. As it was, his brain was unmistakably beginning to feel the effects of being underused as his thoughts were wildly swinging into areas where they did not need to tread and his body was reacting in strange ways.

He was spending too much time with Molly. He often enjoyed their time together, but these interactions usually took place in a proper setting such as the mortuary or in her lab. Having her in his flat all the time was causing the introduction of feelings he did not normally allow himself to associate with. _Oh, what chaos boredom brings!_ He would rather be shooting up the wall again than dealing with this nonsense.

Why had John moved out and gotten married? If he were here, none of this would have occurred. Sure, Mary was a wonderful woman and all, but the couple could have remained dating perpetually. All this getting married and having babies nonsense undoubtedly had damaging effects to Sherlock's psyche.

His phone went off again. Pulling it from his pocket, he read a text from Mycroft.

_How is the babysitting coming along? I bet it's quite cozy with just the three of you in there, brother dear. Any familial stirrings for your goldfish yet?_

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock once again lamented the fact that he was not an only child. He typed his own message in, feeling better once he pressed "send."

_I don't know, brother dear. Got Moriarty yet?_

As they both knew the answer to that, Sherlock smirked as he waited for the reply. While Mycroft was visibly relieved to have his younger brother not sent off on a mission that was expected to get him killed, the older Holmes was less than pleased that a man he had assured his superiors was dead had flashed his face all over the greater part of the U.K. The embarrassment suffered from this was still evident on his face whenever Sherlock saw him. The phone vibrated again as the kettle began to sound.

_That's your job, isn't it? However, it looks as though you are too busy with other issues waltzing into your life._

"Aha!" Sherlock yelled.

As suspected, Mycroft's pride had caused him to tip his hand. Sherlock left his tea mid-preparation, intent on searching the flat for video or listening devices. Mycroft had increased surveillance on the building and its surrounding area, but they had agreed nothing would be placed in the actual flat. Of course, Mycroft—being Mycroft—would do this anyway as he was notoriously nosy when it came to Sherlock's doings. Thus with this in mind as well as the proof in his insinuation from the last text, Sherlock knew there were devices afoot in his flat and he was intent on finding them. It wasn't a case by any means, but it was better than dealing with incessant thoughts of Molly.

_Anything_ was better than that.

—**RE—**

Molly returned to the lounge to find Sherlock scaling the large bookcase on the right side of the fireplace, tossing books randomly over his shoulder, and the screech of the kettle boiling in the kitchen.

Evidently, something had happened. Thankfully, Abby had managed to sleep through it.

"What are you doing?" Molly asked as she went to retrieve the kettle from the stove. Once it was silenced, she came back into the lounge. "Well?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock jumped down and then proceeded to scale the other bookcase, muttering something about Mycroft as he went. His phone, which had been placed on the arm of his chair, sounded.

"Read it," he said, tossing more books over his shoulder.

Molly grabbed the phone. "It's from Mycroft."

"I know. Read it."

"It says, 'You'll never find it.'" She frowned. "Find what? Is this about Moriarty?"

"No."

She exhaled in relief. "Then what?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock jumped down from the second bookcase and started towards the desk, rifling through the papers gathered there. "No," he grumbled after a bit, "too obvious." He turned and peered about the room with a dubious expression. "Aha!" And, with that, he darted towards the kitchen.

Molly leapt out of his way as he started tearing that room apart. Fearing the baby would wake, she said, "Sherlock, what are you looking for? Stop all this racket. You're going to disturb Abby."

He froze, turning to look at her. "We weren't in here. We were out there. So, it must be in the lounge. But where would he put it? It's not in any of his usual spots. He's gone the extra mile this time. Is it just sight or can he hear, too?"

Had Sherlock gone mad? She'd only been gone a few minutes, but the man before her had clearly gone 'round the bend or something. Still, this was Sherlock. No matter how strange or outlandish his actions seemed, there was always a reasonable explanation.

"Sherlock, who are you talking about? 'He' who? Mycroft?"

"Of course, Mycroft. Who else?" he barked, walking around her back into the lounge.

He fiddled around the television, messing with the cables and muttering to himself as he went. When he didn't find what he was looking for there, he moved on to crawling around on the floor inspecting where the floor met the wall. "I will find it, Mike," he yelled.

_Mike? Who's Mike?_ Meanwhile, Sherlock was perched on all fours, staring blankly into the distance for a while as though he were waiting for something. When whatever he wanted didn't appear, he grunted and went back to searching.

Making his way to the sofa, he muttered, "I bet he did it the last time he came over for tea. I knew he wasn't that interested in my experiments."

Molly stepped around him long enough to claim the baby carrier, holding it away from him. Abby must have been exhausted as she barely moved during all of this. Sherlock's head suddenly popped up. "Did he text again?" he asked.

"No," she said, realizing she was still holding Sherlock's phone. She set the carrier down in John's chair, made sure it was secure, and walked over to the consulting detective, who had moved on to patting on the walls. She wondered what kept her so firmly in love with him. He was brilliant and gorgeous to be sure, but also more than a little mad. There were times she'd found herself ridiculously attracted to the insane streak in him—more so that than his intelligence or looks—but now was not one of those. "Do you want your phone?"

"Not now," he said, pressing his ear against the wall. "Come out, come out wherever you are!"

Molly observed all of this with a keen eye. There was an explanation. She was sure of it. Whatever it was, Mycroft was at the end of it. Only his brother could get this kind of reaction from Sherlock. He'd been fine before she'd gone up to change. Looking down at the phone in her hand, she looked through the messages he'd received from before.

_That's your job, isn't it? However, it looks as though you are too busy with other issues waltzing into your life._

As that message as well as Sherlock's message to Mycroft gave her no further insight, she moved on to the one Mycroft had initially sent.

_How is the babysitting coming along? I bet it's quite cozy with just the three of you in there, brother dear. Any familial stirrings for your goldfish yet?_

_Familial stirrings? Goldfish?_ It all came snapping into place in Molly's head. Mycroft was taunting his little brother with how he'd been spending his evening. _Is that what I am to them?_ She thought. _A goldfish? What does that even mean?_

Sherlock pushed away from the wall abruptly, mumbling to himself as he went. All she was able to catch were the words "test" and "I'll show him cozy." Before she could open her mouth to confront him, Sherlock abruptly turned to stare at her, intensely. Then, just as abruptly, he stalked up to Molly and, grabbing her by the shoulders, pulled her in close.

"Sherlock, why—"

"Molly," he said, "forgive me."

Then, without another word, Sherlock Holmes kissed her.


	8. Turning Tables

**Chapter Eight: Turning Tables**

Just as his mouth was about to touch hers, he deliberately deviated his path and planted a prolonged kiss on the delicate skin between her cheek and her lips. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he jerked Molly's body against his and kept pressing. As far as kisses went, it wasn't bad. Or, so Sherlock thought.

Then, of course, all hell broke loose.

First was the sound of his mobile going off. This was quickly followed by the sharp yell of John coming from the door, a gasp from Mary, and the inevitable crying of an awakened Abby. Sherlock disengaged himself from an obviously stricken Molly, who besides stiffening under him, had done nothing while he'd kissed her. Even her hands had remained frozen to her sides throughout his attentions. Not a good sign, he knew. No doubt, he would have some explaining to do there.

_Later. First things first_. Taking his mobile from her, he looked at the text he'd been expecting from his brother.

_You are still a petulant child, Sherlock. You could have at least given the girl a real kiss._

_Ha_, he thought, _got you_. He swiftly turned on heel and went over to where the smiley face was still painted on the wall. It took a few minutes of digging with a penknife, but he was able to secure the pill-sized camera Mycroft had hidden in one of the bullet holes. A zing of exhilaration raced through him as the device was crushed beneath his heel. A lot of the frustration that had been building in him with the last few weeks went with it.

"Yes," he announced, triumphantly. "Knew it was in here."

"What the hell is going on?"

Sherlock glanced over to the door. He'd forgotten John was back.

"How do you mean?" he asked, increasingly aware that Abby's cries were getting louder. _Isn't anyone going to pick her up?_ He looked around the room. Molly was still frozen where he'd left her, seeming decidedly more flustered than before. _Not good, that._ But, he wasn't worried. Once he explained, she would be fine. Molly was always fine once he explained. John was standing near the door, hands on his hips as he always did when he was getting ready to deliver a lecture. Mary was standing behind him, peering back and forth between Sherlock and Molly as if there were a great tennis match going on.

Clearly, they'd all missed the relevance of his actions. He shook his head. _How do they handle being so behind on _everything_? It must be so depressing to be so ignorant all the time. Then again, _he considered,_ they do say ignorance is bliss._

John was close to yelling. "How do I mean?" he repeated. "How do I—Sherlock, you and Molly were kissing. Kissing! You and Molly!"

"I didn't kiss him," Molly declared.

Sherlock cast her a glance before turning back to John with a shrug. "It was an experiment. I used the angle Molly was standing at to discern where the camera was. Mycroft's reaction filled in the rest." He peered at the screaming baby and reached down to pick her up—since no one else seemed able to do so. Cuddling Abby close to his chest, he glanced back up to find them all still staring at him as if he'd grown another head. "What?"

"You and Molly were kissing," John said.

"I didn't kiss him," Molly repeated.

"Sherlock picked up Abby all on his own. Did you see that?" Mary added. "It's like a day of miracles. First, he and Molly finally act on their feelings and now he's being a proper godfather to Abby."

"Feelings?" Sherlock asked.

"Miracles?" John asked.

"I will say this one more time," Molly said, louder than before. "_I_ did not kiss him. He kissed me. If I had kissed him, it would have been obvious. And the only feeling I wish to act on in this moment is the feeling of my knee thrust into _his_ bollocks." And, with a final glare aimed at Sherlock, Molly shoved past Mary and John and fled to her bedroom.

_Yes_, he thought. _That was decidedly not good._ When he considered all of this later, Sherlock was sure he could have come up with a better plan to deduce where the camera was. This one—while successful—had far too many unwelcome consequences. Molly's temper being at the top of the consequence list. It was an unpredictable thing, that. He stalked over to John and Mary, handing the baby off to her mother. "Here."

He retreated to the kitchen, intent on getting the cup of tea he'd originally sought. He needed some time to think of a way out of this. It couldn't be that bad. After all, he had apologized before kissing her, hadn't he? Sure, he might have crossed a small line, but how angry could Molly really be? Once he explained in full, she would probably find it humorous. And why was she this angry anyway? She hadn't minded the other times he'd kissed her. In fact—not that he was an expert on the subject—but she had seemed to enjoy the attention of the chaste kisses he'd previously delivered. Why so different now?

In terms of Mary and her ridiculous idea of anyone acting on any sort of feeling, he wasn't willing to waste an ounce of brainpower on that. What was the point? It wasn't worth thinking about. He hadn't kissed Molly for any other reason than to get the better of Mycroft. There were no feelings for him to act on.

"Sherlock, I'm going to need an explanation."

He turned to see John standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

"I have already explained. I deduced that Mycroft had hidden a camera in my flat."

"How?"

"The texts he sent, of course. Then, it was just a case finding and destroying the thing."

"And you just _had_ to kiss Molly to accomplish this?"

Sherlock snapped up at that. John's tone suggested he thought there were ulterior motives afoot. "I don't know what you mean."

John crossed his arms across his chest as he leaned against the kitchen counter. "Bollocks! You know she has feelings for you and yet you do that to her. What were you thinking?"

"It's nothing I haven't done before."

John's mouth fell open. "What the hell has been going on here for the last few weeks? I know you said you two have become friends, but is that all there is to it? Do you—have you—"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his friend's inability to communicate his thoughts. "Have I what?"

"Do you have feelings for Molly? Romantic ones? Or is this like Janine all over again?"

An uncomfortable tightening in Sherlock's stomach was compounded by an irrational feeling of terror. "My relationship with Janine was for a case. I have explained that for the last time. I have never now nor will I ever have any romantic feelings for anyone—much less the mousy pathologist who lives in your former bedroom."

"Will you both keep your voices down before the pathologist in question overhears?" Mary said, coming into the kitchen. The baby in her arms had quietened and seemed content on just being held. "And I hardly think anyone could classify Molly as mousy, Sherlock. Especially considering the walloping she gave you after we found you in that drug den."

"Yet another thing I did … for a case," Sherlock emphasized, rolling his eyes as he brought his tea cup up for a long swig. "And, I allowed Molly to hit me. It made her feel better."

"Allowed?" Mary parroted. "Allowed? Molly made you her bitch that day. In fact, I suspect if she wanted to, Molly Hooper could do a lot worse to you and you would _allow_ it."

"'Made me her bitch?'" His eyebrow shot up in disdain. "What a quaint, _American_ saying. Careful, Mary Watson. I do believe your roots are showing".

Undeterred by his desperate gibe to get her off this subject, his former flat mate's wife moved in towards Sherlock. So close he backed up. "In fact," she continued as though he hadn't said a word, "if Molly ever realizes her full power in her relationship with you, Sherlock Holmes, you are in deep trouble."

Her meaning was not lost on him. "Don't try to make a fairy tale out of this," he said, glaring at her. "Not. My. Area."

Mary laughed. Not just a giggle or a delicate chortle. No, this was a full-throated, throw-one's-head-back, full-on guffaw. "Do you think I wanted to fall in love with John? That I sought him out? I wanted to live a quiet life alone, under the radar. Friends, yes. Husband and daughter? No. Why would I willingly want to take on liabilities like that? Make myself that weak?" She flicked a quick glance at John before turning back to Sherlock. "Love doesn't ask permission, Sherlock. It just happens. You'll be in the middle before you even realize it's started. And once it's hooked you, there's nothing you can do but sit back while you're reeled in."

"Don't confuse yourself with me, Mary. There are many ways we are alike, but this is not one of them."

It was her turn to shake her head in dismay. "As you like it. But whatever else Molly may be to you, she is your friend. You owe her an apology for your actions." She sighed and looked at her husband. "It's late. John, let's take our daughter home. Sherlock is going to throw himself on Molly's mercy."

Sherlock shot her glare, but it didn't faze her.

"Don't wait," she added.

His phone went off again. _Damn, Mycroft._ He looked down a moment before looking back up. "It was Mycroft. If he hadn't sent those texts …" He broke off when he realized the kitchen was empty.

Charging into the lounge, he found them packing up all the baby's gear and getting her situated in her carrier. "Was I supposed to just let him spy on Molly and I?"

Neither of them answered him. Instead, they finished their packing, Mary pecked him on the cheek, John gave him a nod, and the Watsons were out of his flat.

The silence in the wake of their departure was deafening, leaving him with nothing but his thoughts. For the first time in Sherlock's life, this was not a comforting thing.

—**RE—**

The knock on the door didn't surprise Molly. The second she heard the sounds of John and Mary taking their leave, she knew he would come. Knowing he was coming, however, did not make his appearance at her door a welcome one.

"Go away, Sherlock," she called.

Even less of a surprise, the handle rattled. "Why is this door locked?" He had the audacity to sound perturbed.

"Make a deduction, and figure it out," she retorted.

Silence followed. _Maybe he left. Please let him have left._ Molly wrapped her hands around her up-drawn knees. She knew she'd have to deal with him sooner or later, but was it wrong to hope that it would be later? With the mood she was currently in, morning was good. Next year would be better.

A soft click a moment later was all the warning she had until the bedroom door swung open. "Molly," he said by way of greeting—as if he hadn't disregarded all courtesies associated with privacy—"we apparently need to talk."

"I locked that door," she said.

He shrugged. "Since when has a locked door ever kept me out?"

_Complete git._ She closed her eyes, set on ignoring him as she rested her head back against the headboard. "Go. Away."

Of course, he completely ignored her wishes and did exactly what he wanted. Molly felt him move towards the bed. "You left these downstairs. I thought you might want them."

Curiosity had her looking down at the bundle he'd settled on the end of her bed. It was the soiled pyjamas and robe she'd discarded before. As far as peace offerings went, it was pitiful. Once he had completed his task, Sherlock took a step back, clasped his hands behind himself, and waited.

"Go away," she echoed, her voice softer and barely there.

"I am certainly in favor of not speaking of what occurred downstairs—mostly because nothing of any true note, in fact, happened. However, it has been pointed out to me that it is better that I explain my behavior to you—especially as my actions have been perceived by some as having a certain romantic intent and I wish to assure you that I—"

The anger inside of her swelled to fury. Without thought, she shot from the bed, taking determined steps towards him even as he backed towards the door. "I am well aware of why you kissed me. Mycroft hid a camera in your flat. You used me to determine its location. If it was angled in a way that Mycroft would have thought we were truly kissing, his reaction would have been different than if he knew you were merely kissing my cheek. Thus, when he sent the text, you knew exactly where it was. Am I correct?"

Sherlock's jaw fell open in surprise. If she hadn't been so ready to kill him, she might have found the moment humorous.

Two blinks. "Yes, quite." He coughed. "Glad we have all of that out of the way. I didn't want you to think the kiss we shared meant—"

She grabbed the front of his shirt and jerked him forward. "Use of the word 'shared'," she said, "indicates I was an active participant in what happened. Clearly, you don't know the difference. Allow me to demonstrate." He let out a slight grunt which she muffled by standing on her toes and capturing his lips with her own.

His mouth and body stiffened under hers, but she didn't let that stop her. If she was going to be accused of kissing him, she was at least going to get her money's worth. Wrapping her arms around his neck and pulled him in closer, brushing her lips softly again and again over his until he got enough of his wits about him to begin to protest. The second he opened his mouth, she took immediate advantage and deepened the kiss. This was her one chance to kiss the great Sherlock Holmes, and she was going to make it the best kiss he'd ever had or die trying.

Sucking his lower lip between her own, she felt his tightened body begin to relax into the kiss. He still wasn't participating, but seemed more curious now than shocked. Her hands left his neck, one to thrust itself into the nest of curls along the back of his head, the other to cup his cheek. Angling her head as well as his own, she kissed him and kissed him and kissed him some more, determined to get more of a reaction. He remained passive. Frustration mounted. Running her nails delicately along the back of his head, she felt him shudder beneath her. It was something, but it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. Molly released his lip, shoved him against the wall, and dove in for another kiss, more determination flowing through her than ever before.

She might just be Molly, the unassuming pathologist who could never say no. But by the time she got through tonight, Sherlock Holmes was going to know he'd been kissed. _Really_ kissed. She would never have his love, never share a night of passion with him. But this, she could have this. She would have _this_. After all, there were two things she'd always been exceptionally good at.

And pathology was the other one.


	9. It's In His Kiss

**Chapter Nine: It's In His Kiss**

Knowing Sherlock thought her breasts and mouth were too small was hard enough. Knowing he would never be in love with someone like her was harder still. However, after spending five whole minutes kissing the living daylights out of the man only to discover he wasn't sexually aroused or even the slightest bit keen to kiss her back was the toughest blow Molly Hooper had ever had to endure.

Honestly, it was like kissing a statue. With a resigned sigh, Molly dropped her hands from around him and stepped back, unable to meet his eyes. Turning away, she plowed back to her bed, climbed aboard, and, after drawing her knees against her chest, promptly hid her face against her legs like a twelve-year-old girl facing her first rejection—which is exactly how she felt right now.

It took a while, but then he finally spoke. "Molly, I think—"

"Get out," she interrupted, her voice muffled by her knees.

"I would ordinarily agree with you, and perhaps what I am about to say comes from spending too much time in the likes of John Watson's company—at least that is what my elder brother would say. Yet, I will not leave this room until we have talked about this. I refuse to spend the next few weeks walking on egg shells around you until you get over this … whatever _this_ is … and can act like a reasonable adult again."

Her head shot up. The first thing she noticed was that his Cupid's bow mouth was swollen from the attention she had been giving it earlier. She hated how much the sight of that made her want to kiss him again. Moreover, she hated how much the instinct to kiss him overwhelmed the abject humiliation currently flowing like adrenaline through her bloodstream. She wanted to kiss him again. Even though that feeling was not reciprocated. Why would he ever want her? She clearly wasn't worth wanting.

What was wrong with her? She knew he didn't want her. She'd known it long before she kissed him. Did she have some kind of masochist side she didn't know about? One would have thought after the countless hours she had spent dreaming about kissing him, having the actual kiss go so terribly wrong would have "broken the spell" as it were and make her finally stop caring so much for him. Instead, it made her feel like a cocaine junkie looking to score another fix.

Considering how much she loathed drugs as well as anyone mixed up with them, that was saying something.

"Molly? Do you understand what I am saying?" he asked.

Had he been talking still? She'd stopped listening from the second he'd mentioned the words "reasonable adult." _Ha!_ Like he even knew what that phrase meant, much less how to act like one. Her eyes drew up to meet his. His cheeks were red, as if he were embarrassed—which he probably was—and his eyes were clouded, but not from passion. No, the clouds came more from confusion than any kind of response to what she'd been doing to him only minutes before.

"Molly?"

"There's nothing to talk about, Sherlock. You kept saying we had kissed. I simply made your lie into the truth. That is all. Don't worry. It won't happen again."

He began to nod as she spoke, but then broke off as she told him it wouldn't happen again. "Really?"

"Yes," she said with narrowed eyes. "Why does this surprise you?"

"I-I-It doesn't … not r-r-really," he stammered. Then, clearing his throat, he started again. "I mean, that's good. Just … yes … right. We're friends. Friends do not snog like that."

"We weren't snogging. We were kissing."

The red in his cheeks appeared to flame higher. "Same thing."

"No," she corrected. "It's not. Kissing is just kissing. Snogging is more complicated. It's kissing along with heavy petting and a lot of tongue action. It is what some would call 'making out.' You and I merely kissed. I kept my tongue and hands to myself." Her eyes flicked up to meet his. "As did you."

"Yes," he quickly agreed. "Right. Thank you for clarifying."

"Get out, please."

He turned immediately to do so, but only got as far as the door before he halted. She couldn't imagine what else he had to say at this point. With him, one couldn't even guess. It could be something as blithe as wanting her to make him a coffee to delivering a rundown of all her dirty secrets—information he had no doubt gained from that horrific kiss.

"Molly, you should know that I consider you integral to my life. I would not be able to function as well as I do in my cases without your assistance. You—"

"I count. I know, Sherlock. I also know this isn't your area and that you do not like me like that. You will never like me like that. I know." Somehow, saying that last bit out loud felt like the final nail in a coffin. The long pause from him only confirmed everything she'd said loud and clear. _Why can't you like me like that? Why am I not worthy enough?_

Finally, as if he'd heard her thoughts, he took a deep breath and said, "Molly—"

But she couldn't bear to hear him try to soothe her. It would only make things worse. It would only give her reason to hope and prolong this masochistic torment further. The time for false hopes was over with and the sooner she realized that, the better off she'd be. She was going to stop being in love with him if it was the last thing she did.

"It's OK," she interrupted. "You're my friend. That's enough."

He flipped around with the speed that seemed inhuman. "Really?"

She hated how delighted he seemed at the mere prospect of that. His smiling face reminded her of a child about to get a treat. "Really," she agreed, forcing a smile for his sake. "But you can't kiss me anymore—not for a case or your brother or any other ridiculous reason life throws at you. Not even on the cheek. I can accept that you don't want me, but you have to stop doing things that give me hope. It isn't fair."

He stared at her as if he were searching down to the depths of her soul. Strangely enough, instead of hiding from that or deflecting it as she usually did, she stared right back. She wanted him to see how much she felt for him. She would spend the rest of her life hiding it, smothering it, and ignoring it. But right now, she wanted him aware of it. She couldn't say it aloud, couldn't even think it, really, but she could feel it. She could let it consume and flood her; so much so even the mighty Sherlock Holmes couldn't deny the truth of it, until he was flooded with it as well.

_This is me, Sherlock Holmes. I am yours. Do what you will._ Her eyes washed over him, caressing the planes of his face lovingly in a way she'd long yearned to do. She smiled, nakedly vulnerable to the man she loved and not caring the least that he knew it. He smiled back at her and, for the barest of seconds, she was able to revel in his smile the way a cat revels in the sunshine.

Then, with a sharp, indrawn breath, the spell was broken and he turned away, looking down at the floor. He seemed ashamed to have seen that or to have stared as long as he did, as if he were a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar. He gave a stilted nod, seemingly unable to look at her even as he spoke. "I'm going to get to the bottom of this case with Moriarty, Molly. Then, you will be free. I promise you."

"You don't make vows," she said. "Your first and last one was at John's wedding, remember?"

He darted a glance up at her. "I'm making another one. Now. For you. I will solve this case as quickly as I can. I will free you of this." He paused, swallowing deeply and audibly. "Of me. I swear it."

There was a flash in his eyes as he said those last five words. It was like a window to his soul had been opened for the barest of seconds, treating her to a glimpse never before seen by anyone. In an instant, she understood him like never before. The knowledge gained came on her like a pile of bricks falling in her lap. Sherlock was aware of her love and humbled by it. He was also deathly afraid of it, of what it meant for him as well as the massive amounts of danger it put her in—so much so that he was fiercely shoving it away from him at every angle. Her vulnerability was awe-inspiring to him and went against everything he'd ever believed at the same time. He was both repulsed and inexplicably drawn to it as well as the inner strength she'd shown to lay herself out to him like that. She was also able to see something she couldn't believe she hadn't noticed before. It was shocking, but made complete sense at the same time. _He is_, she thought. _How could he be anything but that? _Suddenly, she recognized his reaction to the kiss in a way she never could before. _How did I not see this before? How did I not feel it when I kissed him? It was there the whole time._

In that flash, Molly was able to truly grasp what Sherlock had meant by telling her all those years ago that she counted. There were few people in this world he cared for and even fewer that he would consider as his inner circle—those few people he respected and allowed to care for him as much as he cared for them. She was one of those rare people whose advice he would heed above his own logic, one of the few he trusted to see him at his weakest, one of the limited friends he had in a world where friends were not something you allowed yourself to have for fear of the weaknesses they would place upon you. He'd made an exception … for her.

It was her turn to be humbled. "Sherlock—" she began.

"I'm going to have some tea," he interrupted, moving towards the door. "Would you like some?"

It was only when he spoke that she realized so much time had passed in silence.

She bit her lip, holding in what she'd been prepared to say. It didn't need to be said. There were some things best left unsaid. Too much had already been shared here tonight … unsaid. Intimacy wasn't Sherlock's strong suit, but he had been more intimate here with her tonight than she imagined he had ever been with anyone—including John. That was enough. "No, thank you. I'm going to bed."

He nodded. "Good night then."

She noticed his hand shook slightly as he pulled the door closed behind him, but she said nothing, just let him go. Once he was gone, Molly laid back against her pillows, taking in all she had experienced and learned during the course of the evening. It felt like days had passed instead of hours. All that had happened, all that she had learned. She searched within herself, wondering if any of it had changed her feelings for him. Was now the time that she would let go of this hopeless love she felt for him?

But love doesn't work that way. It's not a tap one can turn on and off at their will. No, it's more like a tidal wave, ripping over a coastline, flooding every crevice, and washing everything that was before away as it were never there.

Molly Hooper loved Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't a crush or a schoolgirl infatuation. It was true and everlasting love. She would die loving him. No matter where she went in life or whoever else she was with, there would always be a core part of her heart that belonged to him. It didn't matter whether he wanted it or not. It was fated to be his and it was.

And that was OK. It wasn't wrong or right. It just was. That shouldn't have been such a hard concept to understand, but it had been.

Moreover, as much as she wanted him to love her back, she now accepted that could never be. It was like a god loving a mortal. Those kinds of relationships never worked out. How could it? Two beings existing on very different planes? No, it couldn't work. The most she could hope for she already had: His esteem, his respect, and his friendship. It was all he would ever be able to give anyone and he had willingly given it to her in spades. She wasn't sure how important Irene Adler or Janine truly ranked in his life. But Molly did know she was important to him. She knew exactly how high she ranked, and there was a sweet confidence that came with this knowledge.

It was a weird moment when she decided to both accept her love for Sherlock and to also let him go at the same time. But she did. The alternative wasn't fair to either of them. She had to accept her emotion and stop trying to force him to return it. And, with the decision came an inner peace that calmed her like a distraught child in the arms of its mother. It was almost as if with accepting those two things, she had learned to accept herself. Her faults, her inadequacies and her imperfections. Sherlock could see them all and he liked her in spite of them—and sometimes because of them. If he could like her so much, how could she do anything different?

Her breakup with Tom had left her shaken on this ground. Their relationship had developed so that, by the time she realized it wasn't working and what a fool she had been, they were nearly at the altar. This realization had frightened her and left her unsure of herself. This night with Sherlock had fixed that. The kiss that wasn't had helped this as well. She didn't have to wonder what it was like to truly kiss him anymore. She wouldn't daydream anymore about what he would do if he truly knew the depth of her feelings for him. She knew the answers to all those questions now.

She didn't know what the future held for her, but, armed with this knowledge and the freedom tonight had given her, she knew she wasn't going to cling to the past and what-if's anymore. She felt renewed as never before. It was time to move forward for real this time, and she meant to do just that.

—**RE—**

Sherlock made it to the lounge before the strength in his legs abandoned him. He collapsed into his chair, all thoughts of tea forgotten as his mind was consumed as never before. It felt like someone had attached his brain to a nuclear power source. The thoughts ricocheted past him at the speed of light, but instead of being a jumbled, indistinguishable blur, they were distinct and manageable. Molly Hooper had done this to him, somehow … someway. _Molly Hooper? Who would have thought it?_

His index finger ran over his lips, still swollen from her kiss. Back and forth, still able to discern the sensation of her mouth on his. The warmth, the softness, the appeal of it all. He reviewed the memory again and again until it was catalogued and ingrained within him. This, along with all that she had made clear to him minutes ago was overwhelming. Moreover, there was an awakening in him that he couldn't explain. He only knew he was aware of things in a way he had never been before, almost as if he'd been given a sixth sense. He couldn't explain it and, for some reason, the lack of explanation didn't bother him at all.

"Fascinating."


	10. A Little Experiment

**Chapter Ten: A Little Experiment**

After two straight weeks on a case, the last thing Sherlock wanted to see upon returning home was his brother. He said nothing as he entered the main room, trudging past the man sitting stiffly at the end of the sofa. He didn't even flick a glance as he went into the kitchen. Not only was this the easiest way for Sherlock to get the cup of tea he desperately needed, but it also had the added benefit of annoying Mycroft, which was always a good thing.

Some minutes later, he came back to the lounge, settling himself in his usual chair and trying to ignore what was probably a bruised rib. Taking a grateful sip of his tea, he picked up a nearby paper and started perusing the headlines. It took a full three minutes before Mycroft became frustrated enough to break the silence.

"I don't have all day, Sherlock. One of us has an actual job."

Behind the paper, Sherlock rolled his eyes. He certainly wasn't falling for such easy bait. He knew what his brother wanted. He just wasn't inclined to give it away easily. So, in lieu of a reply, he swiftly flipped the page and kept reading.

Finally, there was a very long sigh followed by "Did you find anything?"

"Did you?" Sherlock countered, not bothering to lower his paper.

"I'm not the one who disappeared for a fortnight."

"No," he said, flicking the paper down to stare haughtily at his opponent, "but you are the one who lost Moriarty's body. Have you managed to locate that or have you been too busy with your _actual job_? And, while we are discussing it, how exactly does one lose a dead body? It's not like he could have just got up off the slab and walked out."

"You did."

An unwilling smile cracked the corner of the consulting detective's mouth. "Yes, but I didn't put a bullet in my brain. Moriarty did. He is most assuredly dead."

"Have you considered that it might have been a trick? He's an exceedingly clever man. Perhaps he outwitted you. We both know you're not the smart one."

"And, yet, I didn't lose the body, did I?" Sherlock replied, flipping the paper back up.

Another frustrated sigh sounded. "This is tedious. I'm tired of wasting valuable resources on someone who has the temperament and maturity of a five-year-old. I have men watching you for a reason, and yet you just walked away without the slightest bit of protection or warning."

"They would have slowed me down."

"You didn't even take John with you."

"He's busy with Mary and the baby. I sent him a text."

"I'm your brother. You should have sent me one!"

Sherlock shrugged, not caring if it could be seen or not. "You didn't rate a text."

"And Ms. Hooper? Did she 'rate a text'?"

It was clearly time to stop annoying Mycroft. Sherlock put away the paper and, steepling his fingers, he said, "Moriarty's network has been effectively dismantled."

"So you said when you initially returned to London."

"I needed to make sure."

"Is that _all_ you were doing?"

"Whoever has the body took it to cast doubt on Moriarty's death. They're using him to mask their own activities."

Mycroft's smirk deepened. "It pains me greatly to quote the youth of this country, but 'Duh!'" He shifted until he was on the edge of his seat. "Do you know who's behind it?"

"No," Sherlock swiftly replied, "but I have my suspicions, which is more than I had two weeks ago."

"Since when do you care a jot about suspicions? You observe and make deductions based on those observations. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?"

It was Sherlock's turn to smirk. "Skills like mine cannot be taught, only fine-tuned. This is why I am needed, from time to time, to do your _actual job_ for you."

"Damn it, Sherlock. What do you know? Tell me what you bloody well uncovered!"

There was something primitively satisfying in breaking through Mycroft's icy exterior. His older brother had, even as a child, managed to rein in his emotions with the rigidity that could be seldom replicated. It was as much Mycroft's innate skill as observation was Sherlock's.

Having successfully managed his task, Sherlock decided to throw Mycroft a bone. "Moriarty and I had a lot in common, more than anyone ever knew."

"Yes, indeed, including a romantic connection to a certain pathologist. Really, brother, when will you learn not to let sentiment rule you?"

The consulting detective let a Cheshire cat grin spread over his face, knowing this was an ace Mycroft had no doubt been desperately wanting to play. "I'm not sure what's more pathetic, that you actually believe I have 'romantic' anything for anyone or that all it took was a chaste kiss on the cheek to convince you. Has it occurred to you I might have had an ulterior motive for my actions? I needed to find the camera you hid. And," he said as he picked up his tea cup again, "my plan worked spectacularly. Who knew you were so quixotic? Perhaps the next time Molly has one of those insipid 'chick flicks' nights of hers, she can invite you over. You can braid each other's hair, eat chocolate biscuits, and talk about your cinematic crushes. I know how you favor a good, broad-shouldered chap."

Instead of his brother's expression falling into incredulity and mortification, Sherlock was surprised to see Mycroft sporting full fledge grin. That, experience had taught him, never boded well.

Mycroft chuckled and slid back in his seat, tapping his fingers happily along the arm of the sofa. "You weren't even aware of the camera until I tipped you off. Has it occurred to you that I might have had a reason to hide that camera and send you the texts?"

The events of that evening zipped through Sherlock's brain like a film on fast-forward. _Damn. Double damn. _It had been a trap, one he'd idiotically fallen into._ You stupid sod! _Keeping his expression neutral, Sherlock was determined to remain in control here. He tsked good-naturedly. "Really, Mycroft, is your life _that_ boring?"

"I knew something was off the second my men reported Ms. Hooper was staying with you. You should have given her over to my care. Her safety would have been assured. Yet, one conversation and she has moved in to your flat—even though she'll be nothing more than a distraction to your work. At first, of course, I assumed it had to do with your perpetual need to alleviate loneliness. After all, John is gone and Mrs. Hudson has never been enough for you. And it's not like you can afford another trip to a drug den right now."

"You know a lot about loneliness, don't you?" Sherlock asked, trying desperately to derail the point his brother was trying to make.

Mycroft chuckled again. "You've taken her on cases with you before and you're often in her company for your experiments. She even proved useful in your little public death illusion, but this time, it's different. I was curious to see _how _different; so I decided to conduct a little experiment."

"Nothing happened. You saw that for yourself."

"Oh _something_ happened all right."

"What?"

"You kissed her."

"To find out the position of the camera. Nothing more."

"You could have done that a million other ways. Why go to the trouble of kissing her? You know of her little infatuation with you. Inflaming her passions in that regard could only prove troublesome now that she's living with you—unless you wanted her passions inflamed. Perhaps she had already inflamed yours?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It was nothing more than a means to an end. Perhaps your past interludes have colored your perception on this subject."

"Perhaps your virginity is soon to be a thing of the past."

Sherlock's smirk returned. "Don't you know? It already is. It made a few of the papers. According to my former fiancée, I'm quite the randy fellow."

Mycroft laughed, a sharp, piercing sound Sherlock had never liked. "Is that why you let her print that garbage about you? To finally rid yourself of your nickname? Perhaps you should have taken Ms. Adler up on her offer to help you with that. Or is it now your plan to allow Ms. Hooper that honor? How … sweet."

An unwelcome spark of fear ricocheted up Sherlock's spine. He ignored it in favor of yawning widely. "You're grasping at straws, and I have better uses of my time. If that is all you have, perhaps you can show yourself out." He moved the reclaim his paper. "As you can see, I'm busy."

"Tell me what I wish to know, and I will be glad to do so."

"Any finite conclusions I have made you already know. Perhaps you could use that actual job of yours to do a little digging on your own. Or, better yet, find that missing body. All those resources at your fingertips and even someone like you should be able to succeed."

Mycroft snickered. "My God! You really do like her, don't you? I can smell your fear from here."

"Fear of what?"

"Fear that my assertions about Ms. Hooper are right, brother dear."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "Leave the observations and experimentation to the professionals, Mycroft. You're wasting your time."

"Why are you in such a hurry for me to leave?" There was a pause as he seemed to consider this. "Ahh … I see. She's coming home, is she? The last thing you want is for me to see the two of you together in person. You fear you might give something away?"

"There's nothing to give away."

"Are you sure about that?"

Unfortunately, before he could answer, the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs reached him. Each foot falling on a step seemed like another nail being hammered into his coffin. _Molly._ He'd know her shuffle anywhere. _Not now. I haven't gotten rid of him yet._

But there was nothing to be done for it. Both men turned to watch the door. She entered moments later.

"Molly," Sherlock said calmly, hating how much the sight of her sent a surge of pleasure coursing through his veins. He'd missed her. He could admit that to himself, if to no one else. Knowing Mycroft was watching, he forced himself to sit back in his chair when in reality he wanted nothing more to shoot to his feet. "You're early. Your shift ends an hour for now."

"You said you were coming home. I missed you. It's been ages." She held up a bag of take away. "I brought dinner."

"He sent you a text announcing his return? How quaint," Mycroft called out.

"Well," Molly said, frowning in what looked like confusion, "I'm his flatmate and friend."

"I texted John as well, Mycroft," Sherlock said. He turned to Molly. "Don't upset yourself. Jealousy has never looked well on him."

"Sherlock didn't want me to worry. That's all. He didn't mean to leave you out, I'm sure," Molly added hastily.

Sherlock mentally groaned at that, but stayed silent.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, "has long been known for his compassion and care of other's feelings. It is one of the pillars of his character." He gestured towards the plastic bag she was holding. "And you brought dinner for the two of you. How," He turned to deliver a meaningful look to Sherlock before finishing his sentence, "romantic."

Molly colored at his words and seemed all the more confused. "I-I-I'll just go get plates." She got halfway across the lounge before she said, "Mycroft, I have extra if you'd like to join us."

With a smug smile, Mycroft said, "I'd be delighted."

It was at times like this that Sherlock wished his pathologist was a little less polite. Honestly, it was her biggest flaw. This, of course, was a flaw he ritually took advantage of, but he preferred being the only one doing that. Molly returned from the kitchen carrying a twin plates filed with curried chicken, rice and vegetables, which she delivered to both men. Sherlock took his without comment, setting the plate on his lap and not bothering to issue a thank you. He hoped Mycroft took special note of that. His brother, who no doubt never ate so casually, seemed taken aback by the idea that he was expected to consume a meal while seated on a sofa. With a stiff thanks, he accepted the plate and fork from Molly, but held it formally in the air away from him, as if unsure how to proceed.

Sherlock snorted gleefully at his brother's discomfort and tucked into his food. After days of little to no sustenance of any import, the spicy food was welcome. When he noticed Molly coming back with her own plate out of the corner of his eye, he didn't bother looking up. No use giving Mycroft any ammunition. Molly, after a quick perusal of the room, leaned against the wall and began to eat.

"Mycroft, how have you been?" she asked, cheerfully.

"Busy," Mycroft curtly replied, distastefully picking at his food with his fork. "Do human beings actually eat this?"

Molly blushed furiously. "Oh, sorry! Would you rather have something else? I could—"

"Move."

Sherlock spoke without thought. It was more on instinct than anything else. Both Mycroft and Molly jumped at the severity of his tone. Turning to glare at his brother, Sherlock left no doubt to whom he was speaking when he reissued his order.

"Excuse me?" Mycroft asked, still holding his plate with the aplomb of someone who'd been asked to juggle running chainsaws.

"You're in Molly's seat."

After a brief glance at the woman near the wall, Mycroft gave a small, uncomfortable laugh. "There's an empty chair right next to you. She can sit there."

"You're in her spot. Move." There was something infinitely satisfying in this, and Sherlock was determined to see it through. Hopefully, if he was rude enough, Mycroft would take this as an invitation to leave. _The quicker, the better._

Molly tried to intervene. "Sherlock, it's fine. He doesn't have to move. I'm don't mind standing. I was sitting at my desk the last few hours anyway, doing paperwork."

He ignored this, knowing she was just being polite again. Mycroft could be here for the next twelve hours and she'd never complain. She'd just stand there acting like it was OK. It wasn't OK. Mycroft was being rude to her. That would never be OK.

"You have three choices, brother: Move to the other end of the sofa, move to this seat," Sherlock pointed at the empty seat beside himself. "or leave. Of course, I'm sure you know which of those options I'd prefer."

Mycroft rose to his feet, immediately handing his plate over to Molly. "I'll just be on my way," he said. "Ms. Hooper, thank you for your hospitality."

Sherlock smiled.

"Are you sure I can't get you something else?" Molly asked.

Mycroft shook his head before pinning his brother with a stare. "I got what I came for."

And, just like that, Sherlock's smile fell away. _Damn_.


	11. The Three Sherlocks

**Chapter Eleven: The Three Sherlocks**

Sherlock shot to his feet, ignoring the sharp pain this caused in his side. Wasting no time, he ushered his brother to the door and through it. As they reached the threshold, Mycroft turned to deliver what was surely some clever quip, but Sherlock slammed the door in his face before he could get out a sound. Resting against the back of the door, it occurred to him that this latest action on his part would probably just be chalked up as another bit of evidence to prove Mycroft's theory, but as it was done already and his brother was no longer in his flat, Sherlock found he didn't care.

He pushed away from the door with more force than he meant to and sucked in a hard breath at the echoing twinge in his ribs. Ignoring an apparently still disconcerted Molly, he walked into the kitchen to make himself another cup of tea. Once he got there, he decided a glass of Scotch would serve him better. Morphine would be better still, but there was none to be had—not without significant drama from his brother, John and Molly, that is. Honestly, he'd had enough to last him quite a while.

Taking a large gulp of his drink, he felt Molly come up behind him. He ignored her, finishing off the glass and pouring himself another. He brought the glass to his mouth for another swallow when she finally broke the silence.

"Take off your shirt."

The Scotch seared its way down his trachea. He coughed, hacked and wheezed, trying to rid his lungs of the offending liquid. Tears bit the back of his eyes as he tried to catch his breath and battle against the rising pain the coughing had caused. Molly came around to the front of him, holding out a napkin. He ignored this in favor of glowering at her. "What?"

"Take off your shirt."

Sherlock was speechless. He had indeed heard her correctly. He scurried back from her, intent on putting distance between them. What did she know? Had she somehow caught on to Mycroft's theory? Had she overheard something on her way upstairs? Did she think he—that they would—that he— Logic quickly won out, pronouncing all of this as impossible. With the impossible taken out of the equation, this left only one plausible explanation for her odd demand.

"How did you know?"

Her face softened into an expression of concern and pity. "You favor your left side when you walk and you grimaced twice. Clearly, you're hurt. If I had to guess, I'd say it's your ribs. Now stop being a ninny and let me see."

Sherlock turned away from her and took a long quaff of his drink. "A hot bath, another one of these, and some sleep is all I need."

"Sherlock, I have a special affinity for the shirt you're currently wearing. Don't make me cut it off of you."

He ignored the fact that a woman who was a midget compared to him had just threatened his wardrobe and looked down at the dark blue shirt he was wearing. _Hmm … strange._ Females usually preferred when he wore the purple one. In fact, he'd worn the purple shirt on more than one occasion in hopes of swaying Molly to do something she would have normally denied him—not that she'd ever denied him anything.

"Why the blue one and not the purple one?"

"The blue one brings out your eyes. Makes them seem warmer, which makes you look more …" She bit her lip, as if she were trying to think of the word she wanted.

"Human?" he offered.

She looked away. "No, of course not. Just less like—"

"A sociopath?"

Her head popped up at that. She frowned. "No."

"Then what?"

She looked down, mumbling to herself before announcing "Nothing. It doesn't matter."

He refused to be swayed on this. "More like what?"

She rolled her eyes, seeming to give up on keeping it from him. "More like my Sherlock."

That floored him. He honestly didn't know what to say in response. _Her Sherlock? What did that even mean? It_ took him a few minutes, but he finally put the question to her. "What is your Sherlock?"

She took a deep breath, as if to steady herself for the explanation. "I believe there are three Sherlock Holmeses. I have for a while now. The first is the consulting detective. All business, all work, all logic. No emotion."

"There is only a single Sherlock Holmes and you have just described him in one."

Molly continued as though he hadn't said a word. "The second is very puerile in nature. He has tantrums, is over emotional, and is quite the terror when he's bored."

He didn't bother to disagree this time. After all, she had a point. "And the third?"

She sighed, unable to meet his gaze as she answered. "The third Sherlock is warm and sweet and funny and generous and friendly. Of the three, he's the rarest to come out. That's my Sherlock."

She stared at him full-on as she said this. This time, it was he who looked away, embarrassed. It made no sense for him to be. She was the one waxing poetic and listing qualities he would never possess. What reason did he have to be humiliated? Dear God, surely her love for him hadn't caused her to undergo some sort of mental instability where she lied to herself this deeply? Undoubtedly, she'd fantasized about them being together in a romantic way, but to take her fantasies to this level? What was wrong with her?

He finally met her gaze. He'd never directly lied to Molly Hooper and he didn't much like the idea that she was lying to herself—at least not when it came to him. "Molly, I am none of those things. You of all people should know this. I have ripped your feelings asunder on more than one occasion. Do you remember that first Christmas you came to the flat? For that infernal party John was so set on throwing. Do you remember what I said to you that night?"

"Yes. I'll never forget."

"There? See?" He should have felt satisfied to have made his point. Instead, he only felt more humiliated to be reminded of how badly he'd messed that situation up. "I'm an unfeeling cad. Always have been. Always will be." He moved to turn away from her, intent on pouring himself another drink.

"You apologized."

That stopped him in his tracks. She didn't wait for him to respond. "I'll never forget that night, not because of what you said to me about the present I brought you, but because you apologized for embarrassing me. Not because John or Mrs. Hudson or Greg Lestrade told you to, but because you wanted to, because you felt badly about your actions. Then, you leaned down, wished me a Merry Christmas, and kissed me on the cheek." She gave a small smile. "Hardly the behavior of an unfeeling cad, wouldn't you say?"

And even though he was standing there fully clothed, he felt strangely naked. Sherlock cleared his throat before he answered. "I wanted to assure that my access to the morgue would not be compromised. That was all."

"And after you came back from taking down Moriarty's operation? You invited me out on cases with you."

"Only because John was being a git about forgiving me at the time. I certainly didn't relish going alone."

"At the end of the day, you wished me well with Tom, told me I deserved happiness with someone who wasn't a sociopath—someone who was decidedly not you—and kissed my cheek—again. Was that all because of John, too?"

"Molly—"

"And, finally, when I brought Tom 'round to meet you, you didn't say a word about how much he looked like you. A perfect opportunity to point out something like that and you don't take it. There's a first."

His jaw fell open. "You knew?"

"Not at the time, of course, but later …" She closed her eyes and waved the words away. "Later. But you, being you, you had to have noticed, and, yet you didn't say a word—all to spare my feelings. What am I to make of that?"

Sherlock felt his heartbeat race in his chest. She wasn't … _She didn't think? Did she? _Because it seemed as if she were trying to say he—

She smiled at him, a wide, heartfelt smile that made her eyes sparkle. "You're a wonderful friend, Sherlock. I am lucky to have you in my life. And it's when you're being what I call 'my Sherlock'—as rare as it is—that I'm reminded of why I tolerate the other two versions of you and of why I am proud to call you my friend. The blue in your shirt has a tendency to warm up your eyes, making them look like they only look when my Sherlock is about. So you can see why I am quite intent on keeping this shirt intact." Crossing to him, she reached up towards the garment.

He darted back, but having nowhere to go, grunted as his back hit the counter. It took him a minute or so to remember that he was more than foot taller than she was and certainly strong enough to fend her off. Unfortunately, by this time, she'd managed to undo three of his buttons. Grabbing her wrists, he held her back from him.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, appalled by her forthrightness in invading what was plainly his personal space.

"I would have thought that was obvious."

Was it? He wasn't sure. He hoped she meant to check his ribs, but after that speech she'd just given, he couldn't be sure. Honestly, at a time like this, it would have been helpful to have the counsel of John. "I told you I'm fine."

"I'll determine that for myself."

He glared at her. "You're a pathologist, not a general practitioner."

She glared right back. "Yes, well your general practitioner is at home with his wife and daughter. It's either me or a trip to A&E. Your choice."

"My choice is to finish my drink, have a bath, and sleep until tomorrow. Now, back off, woman."

"Let go of me and I will."

He gasped, unable to believe he had her wrists this whole time. He released her and stepped to the side, putting some much needed distance between them again. Instead of coming after him again, however, Molly reached into her back pocket, pulled out her phone and started dialing.

_Does she really think that will work?_ "Who are you calling?" he asked, sardonically. "John?"

"Mycroft."

That propelled him forward, trying to snatch the phone from her fingers. "You wouldn't."

She jerked the mobile from his fingers in just the nick of time. "Wouldn't I?"

"I'm stronger than you," he growled, stepping towards her and using his superior height to its best advantage to weaken her. It had always worked in the past. Hell, it's how he'd gotten her to agree to help him with his fall from Bart's roof, hadn't it? She could never resist that.

Two seconds later, he had to admit that Molly seemed to have developed an immunity. Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared him down, ignoring the fact that he towered over her.

"Take off your shirt. If your ribs are as bad as I suspect, I'll need to tape them."

"Molly, I assure you—" he began, only to find her dialing on her mobile again.

"Fine," he ground out, slipping the buttons from his shirt with a practiced ease. He jerked the shirt from his shoulders and, ignoring the twinge of pain his action caused, tossed it across one of the kitchen chairs. "Happy?"

She pocketed her phone and approached him with care. He watched her, studying her expression for any meaning he could glean. But besides narrowing her eyes, Molly didn't really react as she studied his chest. He didn't know what to think about that.

Then she touched him, and he nearly flew through the roof. It was a light touch, nothing more than the barest sweep of her fingers across his ribs. Why he was reacting like a skittish colt, he had no earthly idea.

"Does that hurt?" she asked.

"Uh … yes," he said, unsure of how else to explain his reaction.

"Jesus, Sherlock. What happened to you?"

"I fell."

"I thought we agreed you wouldn't do that unless I was helping you."

He grinned. He couldn't help it. "This time, it wasn't planned."

"It looks bad."

He looked down, surprised to see the slight bruising from this morning was now a great swath of black and purple covering half his side. "It's bluster," he said.

"What?"

He sighed in impatience. "It looks worse than it is. Now, if you're through with your examination—"

"Hold still," she said, gently probing the outer edges of the bruise. She worked her way down his side, her fingers gently edging over his ribs.

Sherlock hated the strange tingling sensation that followed in the wake of her touch—mostly because he didn't know what was causing him to react this way. It was like a gentle tickle, but with more warmth and sensation. Moreover, it left his heart racing and his body tightening like a bow string. John had patched him up plenty of times and it had never felt like this. The closest he'd ever come had been with the woman and even that hadn't felt like … _this_. He tried to remember the last time he'd slept. Clearly, exhaustion was getting the better of him.

Molly's hand moved upward until it covered the large scar taking center stage on his chest. He jumped back, groaning as he hit the counter again.

"Sorry," she said, holding her hands up and away from him as if to show she meant no harm. "The bullet wound. It's so large. I didn't expect it to be so big."

"Yes," he hissed, holding his arms up against himself as if to shield himself from her gaze. But her eyes seemed to see nothing else.

"It should have killed you."

"It nearly did."

She nodded. Something flashed across her face, too fast for him to catch. He wondered what she'd been thinking. Moreover, he wondered what she would think if he told her one of the reasons he hadn't died was because of her—or rather, the her that existed in his mind palace. No doubt, she'd make more out of it than there really needed to be. After all, Anderson had been there, too. But as quickly as the flash of emotion had come from Molly, she returned to all business.

"Your ribs are greatly bruised. I'm also fairly sure one of them is cracked. Possibly a hairline fracture, but I'd need an x-ray to be sure."

"No."

"I'll tape them." She turned on heel without waiting for his response.

"Molly, I'm fine," he called.

Her voice wafted back from the lounge. "You'll sleep better with the wrap."

"I need a bath. I can't do that with tape on my ribs."

"Fine," she said. "Have your bath. I still have to find my tape anyway. What did you do with it when you finished your experiment the last time?"

"No idea."

"Go take your bath. I'll find it. It has to be around here somewhere."

Sherlock scuttled away, locking himself in the bathroom before she changed her mind. A few minutes later, she knocked on the door to tell him she'd located the tape and was ready whenever he was done. He kept silent, focusing instead on sinking his battered body into the tub of hot water. Once he was settled, he grinned, quite pleased with himself.

After all, he was aware of two things Molly was not. One, he had no intention of allowing her to tape his ribs. That would require additional touching, and he was in no mood to tolerate that or the resultant feelings it seemed to engender in him. And two, he had no qualms about escaping her by using the other door in the bathroom which led straight into his bedroom.

The fact that he could hear his elder brother's mocking laughter echoing in the back of his mind was irrelevant.


	12. Sherlocked

**Chapter Twelve: Sherlocked**

As Sherlock had bolted both his bedroom door as well as the door which fed into his room from the lavatory, Molly was left with two options. The most obvious of which was to simply leave him alone. After all, he'd been in there for nearly an hour. He didn't appear willing to come out. Had she not been witness to the massive amount of bruising and swelling which had commandeered most of Sherlock's chest, she might have kept to Option One. But Molly had seen it. Worry ate her conscience. If she didn't do something, he'd be suffering all night.

So Option Two it was.

She softly knocked. "Sherlock? Are you dressed? I need to take care of your ribs."

"Go away."

She frowned at the door. "But what about the tape?"

"Don't need it."

He did need it. He was just being stubborn. Damn male pride. "How about an ice pack?"

"Nope."

She sighed, wondering what John might do in a situation like this. An idea popped in her head and, unable to think of anything else to do, she pressed her face against the door in order to get the right amount of volume and pitch. "Stop being a drama queen and open the bloody door, Sherlock Holmes or, so help me, I'll break it down!"

Molly tried to inject the right amount of John-like frustration into her tone as she banged on the door with everything she was worth, hoping he would at least be surprised enough to pop his head out to retort.

"Good luck with that," he muffled voice taunted her behind the door.

Rubbing the resulting sting from her hand, Molly groaned in frustration. It was at times like these that Molly wished she could follow through on her threat, anything to see the hard-headed man's jaw drop. That'd show him. But it was just not the case.

Molly stepped back, sizing up the door and, more importantly, the handle. The consulting detective was not the only one with skills and talents, but none of Molly's included the ability to pick a lock—especially the type with a key. She considered going down to Mrs. Hudson to see if she might have the key, but quickly thought better of it. The last time she'd visited the woman in the evening, she had to sit through a three-hour chat session where the landlady relived some rather risqué stories of her younger days as an exotic dancer. Molly knew she could happily live the rest of her life without ever having to endure those kinds of mental pictures again.

Pocketing the tape, she moped into the kitchen, out of ideas and desperate to collect herself. She went over to the freezer, bypassing the homemade cold pack she'd put in there a while ago to give to Sherlock and going right for her stash. In times of stress, people often turned to cigarettes, coffee, alcohol or even chocolate. For Molly Hooper, it was raspberry sorbet.

She pulled one of the small, individualized containers out, popped off the top and got to business. Two spoonfuls in, she leaned back against the refrigerator with a moan of pure bliss, her head falling against the closed, stainless steel door. She held the fruity ice in her mouth, enjoying the feel of it slowly melting into the back of her throat; the tangy, sweet flavors bursting on her tongue. It was usually only the heights of triumph or the lows of despair that had her seeking salvation in the bottom of carton. Since living with Sherlock, however, she found herself indulging quite often. If she kept this up, she'd be the size of a house. But tonight, she couldn't find the strength to care.

It took another three, decadent mouthfuls before she was calm and ready to think. She moved into the lounge, sending a glare at Sherlock's closed door as she went. Taking her place on the sofa, she folded her feet beneath her and pondered a solution to her current conundrum. None were immediately forthcoming. She looked down at the container in her hands, dismayed to see it was already half-empty. Her love of sorbet was something she'd shared with her father, a man who'd spent his days laboring with sweat on his brow and considered the icy treat the perfect way to cool down. They'd spent many a night eating it as they watched telly. While grief might have had others shying away from something so closely tied to the one they loved and lost, for Molly, it had always been a way of bringing her closer to father. It was that kind of solace and support she sought right now.

_How to get into that room? How can I ever hope to outwit Sherlock Holmes?_ Just as she was about to call the entire idea impossible, her father's voice chided her in her head.

_He might be smarter, but no one is more determined than my Molly._

She smiled inwardly, comforted the tiniest bit. God, she missed her dad. No one, no matter how lucky she got or who she met, would ever love her so unconditionally or believe in her so fully. She missed the safety net having her father had given her.

_It's just you now, Hooper_, she thought. _Now put that brain of yours to good use and figure out a way to outsmart the cleverest man in the world._ After enjoying another bite, her eyes fell on the small stack of DVDs in front of the television. She'd taken advantage of the fact that Sherlock would be away during the week and indulged in a chick flick marathon. He always complained so loudly about her "obsessive need to view female crying films" in his presence that she tried to be a good flatmate and refrain as much as possible. But seeing the stack gave her a plan, and the pure brilliance of it left her giddy with excitement. She knew exactly how she was going to get Sherlock out of his room. Thanks to her father, sorbet, and Richard Chamberlain, she now had an Option Three.

Just a bit later, she was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the television, the mostly eaten container of sorbet in her lap and a remote in her hand. She started the movie and turned up the sound to a volume Sherlock would be sure to hear—especially if he happened to be asleep.

The second the guitars started strumming the familiar introductory soundtrack to the movie, she heard what sounded like a thump coming from his room. Her eyes shot to his closed door before returning to the television.

_Any minute now …_

"Molly!"

She grinned, popping in the last spoonful of her dessert, and waited quietly, wanting to savor everything.

"I know what you're doing!"

Silence.

"It won't work, Molly."

Setting aside the now-empty sorbet carton, she bumped the volume up a little more as the first of the dialogue began. It took all of three more minutes before his door flew open, banging loudly against his wall. Molly kept her face directed at the screen, as if he'd done nothing. After all, the fish might be nibbling at the bait, but he hadn't swallowed the hook yet.

She felt the air about her stir as he came to an abrupt stop in front of her, pointing accusingly at the telly. "What is that?"

She paused the movie to finally spare Sherlock a look. He was garbed in grey striped, silk pyjama bottoms and a ratty, grey, cotton t-shirt. On top of this oxymoron of a wardrobe selection was a scarlet-colored dressing grown that billowed about him quite theatrically, which she was sure one of the reasons he preferred to wear them.

"Pardon?" she asked.

He crossed his arms over his chest, face flushed with palpable frustration. As much as she hated how much this only accentuated his gorgeous looks, she enjoyed being the one putting him in a tizzy. This unfiltered, emotionally turbulent Sherlock might be something that drove John crazy, but it was one she actually relished, especially in this instance. _All the better for Option Three._

Sherlock repeated himself, nearly grinding each word to bits before they exited his mouth. "What. Is. That?"

She smiled to be contrary and said, "_The Thorn Birds_. It just started. Do you want to join me?"

"No."

"OK." She hit "play" again. One smattering of dialogue was all that got out before he went over to slap the television off.

She looked up at him again, trying to look innocently confused. "Problem?"

"I'm trying to sleep."

"You'd sleep better if you'd allowed me to tape your ribs."

"I'd sleep better if you would cease watching mediocre cinema. You know how it pains me."

"You'd be in far less pain if you'd let me tape your ribs."

"This film is nearly seven hours long."

"Yes."

"You have to work in the morning. You won't have time to watch it all."

"I'm off for the weekend. I can stay up late."

"No, this is your weekend to work. You can't lie to me, Molly. I memorized your schedule for the month."

It was her turn to be surprised. He'd memorized her schedule? Just as quickly, the logic of it came to her. _Of course._ _He probably does that all the time._ _All the more convenient for him if he knows when I'm working. _Well, it wasn't going to be convenient for him this time. "I switched last weekend with Dr. Miller. Wedding anniversary." She cocked her head, tapping her index finger against her chin. "I do believe I'll make a weekend of this. I'll hit all the good ones. _The Thorn Birds, Remains of the Day_," She deliberately paused before releasing the last title. "_The English Patient_."

"You're bluffing," he said, eyes narrowing as he studied her. "You've watched all of them already while I was gone. Really, Molly? Every night? You must have truly missed me." He smirked.

"I'm not bluffing," she countered.

"Yes, you are. And, from the looks of the empty container of sorbet you're fisting, I would say you know I know your bluffing. Frustrated much?"

_He's trying to get to me._ Molly, however, wasn't going to let this bother her. Instead, she widened her smile and said, "Care to stay and find out?"

The delicate snarl of his lips said he'd rather be hanged. Molly bit back a laugh. _Excellent._

"This little ploy of yours isn't going to work, you know," he warned.

"It got you out from behind a locked door, didn't it?"

His eyes widened in clear surprise. She grinned, never in her life feeling more empowered than she did right now. She watched Sherlock, waiting on his next move. Strangely enough, it felt like she could hear the whirls of his brain as it spun into high gear. A shiver of fear flew through her. She could never hope to outwit him—not Sherlock at full speed. His eyes scanned her and the surrounding room, seemingly looking for ammunition.

Molly knew her only hope of advantage was his exhaustion. She had to keep him knocked off center. So, before he could say anything, she said, "You know, I think you're right."

His eyes darted to her as his expression fell blank. "What?"

"I shouldn't watch these now."

One eyebrow cocked at her suspiciously. "Really?"

"Yes, I should run upstairs and get _The Notebook_. No," she inserted as he was about to respond. "_Titanic_!"

He seemed terrified now. "Molly, if you value my sanity and historical accuracy—"

"Who cares about all that when one has Leonardo DiCaprio?"

His resulting glare made clear his opinion on that. He had the countenance of a three-year-old on the verge of a full tantrum. No doubt, this maneuver had worked on John a million times. But, for Molly, it was an invigorating turn of events. After all, for the first time since she'd known this consulting detective, she was calm and in control while he was the one who was losing his mind. Not the way she'd always hoped he would, of course, but that fact didn't detract from her happiness for even an instant.

If he was intent on throwing a fit, that meant he was close to caving. All that was needed was one more, small push. Molly gave a mocking, little laugh and said, "_Sex and the City_? I have all six seasons."

Sherlock paled and backed away as if she'd just told him she was holding a bomb. He looked at her before turning to look at the door which led to her bedroom, his mind clearly weighing the pros and cons of everything. She watched, fascinated, as he quickly, but methodically reined in his almost fit of pique. It was odd, like he'd flipped some kind of internal switch. Straightening to his full, impressive height, he coolly said, "I'll let you touch me, but only if you agree to restrict all remaining female crying films and like activity to your room on your laptop with ear phones. For the length of your stay. Do we have a deal?"

Molly frowned at him, confused that he would phrase it that way. _I'll let you touch me? What does he mean by that?_ But there was no time to dwell. She'd won the battle—even though she could tell by the firm set of Sherlock's jaw that the war was hardly over. No, Sherlock Holmes was not going to let something like this stand unchallenged for long. He was exhausted, had underestimated her, and just wanted to retreat for a bit before he took her down.

"Deal," Molly agreed, getting to her feet and grabbing the tape. "This won't take a moment. Remove your shirt and robe."

He didn't move at first. It looked like he was startled at having to do so in front of her, but that made no sense considering that he was a man and had just been bare-chested in the kitchen not an hour ago. She stared at him and waited. He sighed, rolled his eyes, tossed off the robe, and jerked the shirt from over his head, groaning slightly at the pain this action caused. She refrained from pointing out how this proved she was right to want to tape him up and wasted no time getting to work.

Sherlock lurched when her hands first made contact with him. A wave of goosebumps rose and spread in the wake of her fingers grazing over his skin. "Hold still," she murmured, glancing up at him and her hands fell away. She rubbed them together a bit to generate some heat so they wouldn't be so cold against his skin. "I know you're hurting. I promise to be as gentle as I can."

Something flashed across his face as she reached up to touch him again, but as he quickly concealed the emotion behind the mask of icy hauteur usually reserved for Mycroft or some idiotic soul who dared challenge one of his deductions, she couldn't be sure. It had looked like fear, but that made no sense. Why would Sherlock ever be afraid of her?

His skin felt warm and supple beneath her fingertips, but she was happy to note she wasn't the least bit flustered by it. It seemed that in, acknowledging and accepting the fullness of her feelings for him, something inside of her had shifted. Or maybe it was just that she'd been living with him day in and out for months and the enigmatic quality about him that had always left her disoriented had dimmed. She still found him mesmerizing, of course, but she was able to better control herself about him now. Sherlock, however, was not unaffected. Beneath her hands, she felt him shudder. Was he cold? It was slightly stuffy in the flat, but as this was a man who could wear a coat in the dead of summer, she wasn't sure if he was just normally cold-natured. She darted a glance up at him and was surprised to find him staring down at her keenly, as though studying and classifying her every move, her every breath. His chest tensed as her hand brushed against him. Everything about him seemed fixed and on alert. And unless she had missed her guess, he was holding his breath.

Unquestionably, he wasn't a fan of someone touching him so intimately. The fear was becoming more evident in his eyes, even though he seemed to be fighting to keep it suppressed and hidden. Had she not known him as long and as well as did, she would have probably missed it all together or dismissed it as something else. Was he really so nervous, so on edge about something so simple? She hated the thought of him being so bothered, especially by anything she was doing to him. So, intent on putting him at ease, she focused on her task, trying to make quick work of it. Within a few minutes, she was pulling the edges of the tape tight against his side. Then, with a meticulous precision born out a want to not have to repeat this process because it hadn't been done right in the first place, she smoothed down the middle and stepped back.

"There," she said with nod. "That should feel better."

Sherlock immediately backed from her, taking an experimental breath as he held his side. "Yes. You can go now." His tone was curt and dismissive. Before she'd lived with him, it might have even hurt her feelings, but she knew it was only bluster from a man out of his comfort zone.

"We're in the lounge," she gently said. "Where would you like me to go?"

He blinked, seemingly a bit bewildered at having to be reminded. "Yes. Right. I'm going to bed." He reached down to awkwardly retrieve his shirt and the dressing gown. "That is, if you are through tormenting me for the evening."

Guilt rushed at her. "Would you like me to bring you some paracetamol and water? It should help with the pain."

He glared at her. "You shouldn't come into my room unless you have morphine."

His statement was like a little, verbal slap. That was when she knew for sure exactly how uncomfortable he was. The last thing he would ever expect her to be willing to do is to bring him drugs. His meaning was evident. _Stay away from me, Molly Hooper._ He didn't wait for a response before turning on heel and storming back toward his bedroom.

Molly opened her mouth to wish him goodnight. However, as she caught a good look at his back, she forgot all about that as she squawked, "What on earth happened to your back?"

The door slamming shut behind him was the only reply she got. Molly was left in shock. There were scars, quite a few of them from the looks of things, crisscrossing his back. From the brief glimpse she'd gotten, it looked as though he'd been beaten by some sort of object. Who had hurt him? _Why? _Had the marks happened during the last two weeks?

"No," she muttered to herself, remembering there was no redness about them. They were older than that. She'd bet her license on that. If she had to guess, she would have thought the scars must have come during the three years he'd been gone dismantling Moriarty's web of power and influence.

Without thought, she took a few steps towards his bedroom. The closed door brought her to a stop. She raised a hand, gently placing it against the smoothness of the wood. She wanted to comfort him, to make sure he was all right, and to understand what kind of hell he must have gone through. For them. All to keep them safe. Would anyone ever understand the dangers to which this man had placed himself just so he could keep everyone safe?

Her shoulders drooped as her hand fell away from the door. But it was impossible. All of it. As far as she knew, he'd never spoken to anyone about that time. Not her, not Greg, not Mrs. Hudson. Not even John. Impossible. Her hands fisted at her sides. All the determination in the world couldn't help her with this one. As much as she'd outmaneuvered Sherlock Holmes before, she knew she had no hope of succeeding when it came to this.

No, whatever secrets the man had about his back and the three years he was away from London were going to remain locked away forever.


	13. Unexpected

**Chapter Thirteen: Unexpected**

Waking up to a disheveled looking stranger she didn't know standing over her was not the oddest thing to ever happen to Molly Hooper. Of course, this in no way affected her reaction. She screamed bloody murder.

She shot up from the sofa, still yelling, and, on instinct, threw the first thing she could grab at the man's head. It happened to be the large hardback book she'd been reading last night before unceremoniously falling asleep on the sofa. Unfortunately, the book missed it's target completely.

Molly twisted about, frantically searching for a new weapon to use. _Wasn't there a harpoon in here at one time? Where is it now, when it's truly needed?_ Spying a long, skinny, black umbrella propped against the desk, she took it, swung it back against her shoulder, and prepared to strike. If the man was here to kill her, she wasn't going to make it easy for him.

He threw up his hands as if to block the coming blow. "Please, miss. I ain't 'ere to 'arm ya none."

Molly's heart was beating so loudly in her ears she could barely hear what he was saying. _Where's Sherlock? Has this man been sent from Moriarty? Where's Sherlock? Am I in danger? Where's Sherlock? Has he been hurt? Where's Sherlock?_

"Can ya stop shriekin' like that, Miss? My 'ead can't take that kind of noise this early in the mornin', and I'm sure Mr. 'olmes done 'eard ya callin' 'im. Pretty sure all of London's 'eard ya by now."

Molly immediately fell mute, having not realized the screeching she'd heard was coming from her or that she'd been shouting Sherlock's name. Keeping a firm hand on her umbrella, she took a few steps back from the young man for good measure. "Where's Sherlock?"

"In 'is room. Be out in a bit."

"I'm sorry, but who are you?"

"I'm Wiggins, Miss. Don't you remember me?" The rail-thin youth doffed the dirty, wet cap he'd been wearing and gave a small smile, showing off yellowed, crooked teeth and a mass of greasy, unkempt hair. His egg-shaped eyes were blood-shot, and his face and figure were gaunt and sallow, as though he hadn't eaten or slept in weeks. The fact that he'd been in the rain recently perfumed the air with the unpleasant odors of wet dog and boiled cabbage.

"No, I don't remember you," Molly replied, setting down the umbrella. One good look into the fella's eyes told her he wasn't the type to harm her. Molly wondered if this feeling she had was because he reminded her of Sherlock. He was scrutinizing the place in a manner she found similar to the way the consulting detective would have done it. "Sorry, have we met recently?"

He darted a look back at her, his smile faltering a bit. "I'm Mr. 'olmes' protégé. We met when you was given 'im the what-for for being 'igh." His expression was tinged with the slightest hint of awe. "You got a nice right 'ook, ya 'ave."

Molly blushed, unable to come up with a suitable reply. She vaguely remembered the man, now that he brought it up. At the time, she'd been so focused on Sherlock and trying to rein in her anger that she'd barely noticed John and Mary were also in the room, much less anyone else.

Suddenly, the front door to the flat flew open and John Watson in a rain-drenched kagoul and wellies hurried inside carrying an equally wet brown paper bag. "Sorry, Molly. Had to park the car and got sidelined by Mrs. Hudson." He gestured toward Wiggins. "Did this one spook you? I didn't realize you were still here or I never would have let him come up without me. Wait." The doctor stopped abruptly, a flurry of droplets sliding off him and soaking the carpet as he came to an abrupt stop. He seemed confused. "Isn't it your weekend to work?"

Had everyone memorized her schedule? "No. I switched off with someone and worked last weekend."

John nodded and gave her a cheery smile before glaring at Wiggins. "Go over there." He pointed towards the empty fireplace. "Can't you tell you're frightening her?"

"Actually," Wiggins replied, "she's more bothered by the fact that ya knew 'er work schedule than she is by me."

Molly, who had been trying to fold up the light coverlet she'd been sleeping under and didn't remember seeing before, lurched about. "How did you—" She stopped herself, recalling the deductions he'd made about John that day in the lab. Adding this to how he'd been seeming to study the details of the room made everything click into place. Ahh. No wonder he was Sherlock's protégé. "Never mind."

Wiggins gave her a jaunty little wink. Molly smiled back at him, unable to help herself. He was like a lost little cat in need of a good home and a steady hand. She had the overwhelming urge to pat him on the head and offer him a bowl of kibble.

"Sherlock! Get out here," John called. "You dragged me out of a warm bed at the crack of dawn in what looks to be a monsoon to run bizarre errands for you. The least you could do is be ready to go when I get here!"

Molly looked to the windows, surprised to see how hard and loud the rain was pelting against the panes of glass. No wonder I slept so deeply, she thought. The rain had always had this effect on her. The pale light of a stormy morning cast the usually cozy room in a gray pallor.

A glance at the clock told her it was half eight. Too early to be up on a Saturday off to her mind. Molly took her usual seat on the sofa, wrapping the blanket about her to ward against the coolness in the air along with any residual fear being awakened so abruptly had left behind. She considered offering to make coffee for everyone, but didn't because it was obvious they were all about to leave on some kind of case.

She'd just folded her feet up under her bum when Sherlock's bedroom door came open and the man himself exited, barking orders at someone from his mobile. "Delivery. Yes, Yes. I understand. I don't care about the cost. Just take care of it." He paused, the frown on his face melting into a sinister smirk for the barest of moments. "That's right. Twenty minutes. 221B Baker Street. Mycroft Holmes. You have the card number." There was another pause. "Oh no. Thank you."

"If I ask what that was about, does that make me party to the various laws you just broke?" John asked.

Sherlock's expression was like a cat who'd devoured all the cream. "You'll see soon enough. Besides, it's not a crime. My brother owed me, and he has paid … most handsomely." His eyes skimmed over John. "Ah, I see you brought the gun as I asked."

John sighed as though heavily put upon. "Yes. Pistols don't grow on trees, you know, and you've already cost me two. So, you keep your hands off this time."

Molly's eyes darted between the two men. _This time? What happened last time? Or is he talking about that Magnussen fellow? He must be. Why do they need a gun? Are they going after Moriarty?_

"And why did I need to wear this?" John added huffily, opening his jacket to show his clothes underneath.

That's when Molly noticed the ex-soldier was wearing a navy blue suit along with a light blue tie. She also noted that Sherlock was likewise attired, including wearing a tie—something she hadn't seen him don since John's wedding. The fact that they were so matchy-matchy oddly made them seem like a couple. But Molly knew better than to point this out.

Sherlock shrugged John's question off. "Did you pick up everything else?"

"Yes, including the sugar and milk." John raised the wet bag in his hands. "Why do we need those exactly?"

"We're out," he answered, with a careless wave towards the kitchen. "Go put them away, will you?"

John expelled a heavy, disgusted breath through his nose, making his displeasure at this turn of events known. Molly stayed quiet because she was sure laughing was inappropriate right now and because she and Sherlock had indeed been out of milk and sugar. She only wished her flatmate had remembered to request bread as well. She had a hankering for toast this morning.

As John went into the kitchen, Sherlock turned to Wiggins. "Did you get what I require?

"Yeah. Put it in Watson's car."

"Perfect," Sherlock said. "You can go now."

Wiggins crumpled his cap in his hands. "Actually, I was 'oping I might be able to … tag along wi' you blokes. If ya don't mind, that is. I'd like to see 'ow it's gonna play out for myself."

Sherlock frowned at first, but then nodded. "That's fine. We'll need a witness anyway."

_Witness? Witness to what?_ Molly gaped, feeling as if she were watching an episode of _Broadchurch_ or something. Not that she could even do that these days with Sherlock as a flatmate. He always guessed the killer ten minutes in. It was vastly annoying, that. Sexy, too, but, since she was determined to just be friends with Sherlock, she squelched traitorous thoughts like those.

"Is someone going to fill me in on what the bloody hell is going on? You know, Sherlock, it's not as if I get a lot of sleep these days between the baby and work. The least you could do is not jerk me about like a dick," John said angrily as he returned from the kitchen. Then, catching sight of Molly as if he'd just remembered she was there, he blushed slightly. "Apologies for the language, Molly."

Molly waved him off, her mind too filled with questions to care what John had said. "I-I-It's fine."

"Well?" John prodded, with eyebrows raised at Sherlock. "What's the case?"

"Serial killer. Five victims thus far. Lestrade sent me pictures from the crime scene from the latest two."

"Serial killer?" The words flew from Molly and John's mouth at the same time, but Sherlock only responded to John.

He shoved his phone in his partner's direction. "Tell me what you see."

John peered down at the screen. "Is that…?"

"Yes. Two men—"

"Crucified? On the same cross?" John finished, looking up in astonishment.

"That's not how they died. Look closer. You can see the ligature marks on their necks. They were strangled. Their positioning on the cross came later. Killer's struck three times now. Once twelve weeks ago, one two months ago, one last month, and now again last week. He was more careful before. One victim, one cross each time. Meticulous placement down the nails he used to affix them. Little evidence to tie him to it."

"But there are two victims this time," John added, staring at Sherlock. "Two is harder to do at one. Are you sure he didn't have help?"

Sherlock retook the phone, staring down at it. "No. He works alone. He didn't mean to kill these two. They set him off, somehow. This was a heat of the moment decision. He didn't have time to get another cross. Plus, their placement isn't as neat. They're tied together with wire; no nails. He was in a hurry."

"What does the toxicology panel say?"

Both men looked up at her.

Molly repeated her question, rising from the sofa to move towards them. John spoke first. "Why?"

"Two men. Fully grown. If it's a spur-of-the-moment thing, the killer's got to find a way to manage both of them. One's not going to wait patiently while he sits there and strangles the other. He might not have help in the form of another person, but—" She reached out to take the phone from Sherlock so she could see for herself, but the second her fingers brushed against his, he cut her off.

"Yes, yes, Molly," Sherlock curtly responded. "He drugged them first. Obviously." He snatched the phone from her reach and stepped back. "Do sit down, and stay out of this."

Molly, feeling as if she'd been punched in the stomach, fell silent. Sherlock had cut her to the quick many times, but never like this. Was this about the previous evening? Still, she hadn't expected him to be quite so cruel.

"Sherlock," John hissed in warning. "What's wrong with you? You can't talk to her like that."

"I'll talk to her any way I like if she's interfering in my case," Sherlock bit back, his attention on his phone.

Molly, feeling impotent and not wanting to be the cause of a spat between the partners, and hurried into the kitchen. "Would anyone like coffee or tea?"

John and Sherlock continued to bicker and paid no mind. She made it in the kitchen, hating the tear that escaped down her cheek. Wiping it away, she put the kettle on and turned on the taps to wash up the few dishes in the sink. Anything to give herself something to do.

"You all right there, Miss?"

She looked to see Wiggins coming in. She smiled as big as she could. "Fine. Just a little tired. I think after you all leave, I'm going to pop off to bed."

Too late, she remembered how like Sherlock he was. "You're not a good liar, you know." Those large eyes of his seemed to stare right through her, like an x-ray. The difference was, where Sherlock was trying to uncover a secret, Wiggins actually seemed to care.

The kettle started to sound for attention; so she was saved from having to respond. After the tea had brewed a few minutes, she poured some into a cup and, after adding a dash of milk and some sugar, handed it to him.

"How did you know how I took it?" he asked.

"I—" She broke off, abashed to admit she'd automatically prepared it the way Sherlock liked it. Instead of replying, she smiled, shrugged, and began making her own tea. She'd picked it up with the intentions of taking her first sip when Wiggins spoke again.

"You should wear your hair down more often, Miss. Makes you look real pretty, it does."

Molly's free hand flew to her hair. Having kipped on the sofa all night, she had no delusions that it didn't look a fright. Probably like she'd been through some kind of wind tunnel. Still, she blushed under the weight of his compliment and reached down to adjust the top of the baby pink pyjama set she was wearing.

"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind. You should call me Molly, especially if you're going to be Sherlock's protégé. Since I'm living here for a bit, I expect we'll see each other every now and again."

"Molly," Wiggins repeated, as though testing the name on his tongue. "Molly. That's nice. Suits you." He toasted her with his cup. "Pretty name for a pretty lady."

"Thank you. What's your name? Surely you don't go by Wiggins all the time?"

"You can call me Bill, if you like."

"Bill," she repeated. "Much nicer than Wiggins, if you don't mind me saying. Still, if I had to guess, I would think you look much more like a William. It has a regal sound to it, don't you think?"

"Regal?" he asked with a laugh. "Me?"

"Yeah, like the prince or like this man I had to autopsy one time. He was a baronet or something like that. His name I'll never forget. William Pritchard Pringle Prentiss. Most regal man I ever had on the slab. You can be like him." The second the words left her mouth, she realized how awful they sounded.

_Shit! Did I really just tell him he could be like a dead man?_ Feeling her cheeks heat in embarrassment, she stammered, "S-S-Sorry. I got a tad carried away there. I didn't mean it like that. I mean, like you remind me of a dead man. You don't. You're nothing like him. He's dead after all and titled while you're just a—" She paused and closed her eyes, trying to collect herself before she made this any worse than it already was. Not possible at this point. "I … I'll call you whatever you like." Molly looked up to find him staring down at her. She'd expected him to look surprised, mortified, offended, or even mockingly derisive. Instead, he seemed bemused and fascinated.

"No, William's fine. Me Gram used to call me that. I'd like it if you did too, Molly."

She smiled at him, feeling all the anxiety she'd had before melting away at his easy acceptance.

"Billy, if you could possibly tear yourself away from such scintillating conversation, John and I are trying to solve a major crime in here and you did say you wanted to attend. Did you change your mind?" a deep voice said.

They both turned. There was Sherlock, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. William looked to his mentor for a moment, darted a quick glance back at Molly, and the returned to Sherlock. The two men shared a pensive stare. Surprisingly, Sherlock was the first to break away, looking down to study his nails as if he were bored. With that small gesture, finally, William gave a quick nod, shoved his half-finished cup of tea at her, issued a muffled "Thanks" and exited the kitchen.

Molly expected Sherlock to follow suit. He didn't. Instead, he just looked at her. It wasn't the usual analyzing scan. It was like he saw something about her that frightened him and couldn't seem to decide whether to run or to stay and fight. Then, like a dry-erase marker wiped off a board, all emotion vanished from his face, leaving him with nothing but a blank expression. Molly steeled herself, aware of what would come next. She'd known the man in front of her too long not to. Sherlock was about to tear her to shreds. Why, she didn't know. But it was going to happen nonetheless.

_We'll see about that._

"Making friends?" he asked.

"Yes. William is very nice."

"Yes," he quickly agreed, "a nice, drug addict."

"So are you."

He blinked as her verbal blow glanced off of him. "I am currently off drugs. Billy, however, is decidedly not. His last hit, by the way his hands are shaking, was two days ago. He'll need another fix soon."

"So?" She knew where he was going with this, but she wasn't going to make it easy. He was going to have to say it.

"It's been my experience that you don't like drug addicts."

"I have no problem with drug addicts. They should be pitied and assisted when they are ready to receive assistance."

"Is that what you slapping me that day was? Assistance?"

"No."

"No?" he asked, stepping towards her. "Then what was it?"

She held his gaze, anger fueling her every word. "Disappointment."

"I disappointed you?" He sneered at her. "Get used to that."

She ignored his condescension. "You disappointed all of us. You are a far better man than you were in that moment. Can't you see that? You put everything you'd worked for—your own life even—in danger and for what? A case?"

"I did what needed to be done."

"You could have found another way."

"There wasn't another way."

"There wasn't another way that also let you shoot heroin, you mean. You went too far, Sherlock. I slapped you because you needed to know that. You were losing focus of what was important. Case or not, you must have boundaries; someone to—"

"Molly, I already have a mother. Two, if one counts Mycroft," he scoffed. "I hardly need another." He took an additional step forward, his eyes wild with more emotion than she'd ever seen him exhibit. "And even if I did need yet another individual in my life to regulate my choices, the last person I would ever choose is you."

Molly flinched. She couldn't help it, but she did maintain eye contact with him. "I don't want that."

"No, you want something far worse, don't you? Well, you can't have it." His hands gripped her shoulders tightly. "Do you hear me? Do you understand? You'll never have it. Not from me, and certainly not from Billy."

He was deliberately trying to scare her now. Showing himself at his worst. Molly could see it just as easily as he could deduce a cheating spouse. The question was why? He was trying to warn her away from William. But to go to this extent to do so? Why did it matter if she thought well of William? It wasn't as if she had feelings for him or was considering replacing Sherlock for—

"Oh my God," she murmured, still looking up at her flatmate as the answer became as clear as an empty Petrie dish.

He frowned at her. "What?"

"You're jealous."


	14. Cruel To Be Kind

**Chapter Fourteen: Cruel To Be Kind**

Sherlock was callous, egotistical, tactless, cold, and often obtuse when it came to considering the wants, needs, and feelings of others. He'd admit that freely. He was also ruthless, insolent, and, on occasion, immature. But the one adjective that could never be used to describe him was—

"Jealous."

"What?"

Molly's chin came up, a challenging action that had never boded well for him. "I said you're jealous."

His mocking laugh was almost a reflex. "Jealous? Don't flatter yourself."

She said nothing, just kept looking at him in that patiently placating way that always left him feeling threatened and oddly comforted at the same time. How did she do that?

She could not be allowed to believe this. First, the very notion of him being jealous over any of her would-be lovers was laughable. Second, it wasn't true. Third, it _really_ wasn't true. Fourth, if it was true, it could ruin … it _would_ ruin everything_. _

_No, this must end now._

"Molly, you misunderstand my objective in bringing Billy's proclivities to your attention," he said, looking down to study his nails. Anything so he wouldn't have to see her face right now. "I was simply trying to warn you—as I am given to understand any friend would." He spared her a brief glance before returning his attention to dislodging a rather stubborn hangnail. "One would think after all the trouble you had with Tom, you'd stop seeking out inadequate imitations of me. But if you wish to add a homeless addict with hygiene deficiencies and mummy issues to your list of unsuitable boyfriends, who am I to stand in your way?"

Silence was her only reply. Sherlock pushed forward, intent on ending this once and for all. He looked up and, with his best smirk, dropped his final barb. "While Billy's not a sociopath, his keen intelligence and skills in observation certainly put him a step above Meat Dagger."

Molly blinked once. Pause. Then, a second, longer blink. Finally, there was a slight crinkling of her brow that bespoke of curiosity. Besides these minute actions, however, there was no other outward response. She didn't finch or seem hurt or indignant. Even the pitch of her breathing remained unchanged.

_React, you bloody woman. I had to have hurt you. Do something! _

Then, as if she'd somehow heard his thoughts, she strode towards him. Sherlock backed up. Realizing how this might appear as though he were retreating, he held his ground and let her advance on him. There was barely a hair's breadth of space between them before she stopped.

_What is she planning?_ What would she do now? What was she thinking? As well as he knew her, as much as he'd always considered her to be one of the most woefully responsible and predictable people he knew, Molly Hooper was an enigma to him in this moment. Would she strike him? Sherlock hoped she would. He preferred anger. Anger he could read. Anger he could understand. Anger he could handle. But Molly didn't even look slightly cross. She didn't _look_ anything. He groaned internally. This composed façade she was wearing was as immune to his deductive powers as Irene Adler's nakedness had been so long ago. Was he losing his touch or was this something else entirely?

Panic welled inside of him like puss oozing from an infected wound, but he held it off.

"If Billy is what you want, of course," he said, trying again to throw her off center, "I will—"

Sherlock fell mute as Molly reached over to take his hand. He flinched at the touch, but that didn't stop his traitorous fingers from reflexively wrapping themselves around hers. Her skin was soft, softer than it should have been considering what she did with her hands on a daily basis. Her palm was cool, cooler than he'd expected, the bones of her hand so petite and fragile enveloped within his.

He could break her if he wanted. Not just hurt her for her own good, to remind her of boundaries and of what an absolute bastard he could be. No, he could completely destroy her. It would be so easy. Sherlock looked down at this daring little creature in front of him, losing himself for a bit in the amiable, brown depths of her eyes. They were so inviting and curious and kind. They'd always been so. That someone could be as smart and clever as his pathologist obviously was and such a dupe at the same time was a mystery he would never fully be able to solve.

He could break her if he wanted. It was something he'd always known. Not only was he infinitely more intelligent than she was, but Sherlock didn't have the burden of a tender heart and all that caring she did for any poor sod who managed to cross her path. There was also the very telling fact that he physically towered over her diminutive frame. Everything about him was—in comparison to her—bigger, harder, stronger, better. All it would take was the smallest, most trivial thing and he could crush her out of existence. Didn't she understand that? She must and yet, like a moth to the flame destined to consume it out of existence, she kept bringing herself nearer and nearer to him. Was she unaware of the danger or did she just not care?

He could break her if he wanted. It would be so easy, but he'd always gone out his way to help her even from the first day of their acquaintance. Pointing out her fashion and make up missteps when she was painfully unaware; informing her of the flaws of her boyfriends to save her from probable heartache; telling her that she counted when she'd wrongly deduced that she didn't, complimenting her obvious skills in pathology by allowing her to help him in his cases and experiments; and, whenever possible, stopping her from wreaking her macabre humor and social inadequacies on their shared group of associates to spare her from certain public humiliation.

He could break her if he wanted. But Sherlock didn't want to. As much as she'd always been so predictable and amenable and benign and responsible and—if he were being completely honest—boring, there was a small part of Sherlock Holmes that needed Molly Hooper to be that way. She was a safe harbor, a luxury he rarely allowed himself to savor. But he did with her. He needed her to remain in the role to which he had assigned as much as he needed John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to do the same. Things made sense that way. Life seemed less … wrong, more ... right. Didn't she understand the chaos that could come if she didn't stay where she was put? Hadn't she seen the damage John's departure, marriage, and fatherhood had wrought a once-ordered consulting detective's life? Even now, Sherlock could see faults in his process that hadn't been there before. Any more change and he wasn't sure what would happen. Couldn't Molly understand that some things were best left as they were?

As if to remind him of her presence, she squeezed his hand, still staring up at him expectantly. So expectantly. Why was she pushing this? Even if he could allow himself to feel something _more_ for her, didn't she realize how much being with someone like him would break her? And he would. He wouldn't be able to help himself. She would selflessly give him love—love he could never accept, much less give—and, in return, he would break her, utterly destroy this selfless, genuine, beautiful, generously-perfect angel in front of him. _No._ The mere thought left him disgusted. _No!_ She deserved better. Sherlock knew his limitations. He always had. He hadn't wanted to be her friend, hadn't wanted to take on the obligations that went along with that. But he had. He'd done it for her, to repay her for all the kindnesses, patience, and assistance she'd given to him. Why couldn't she accept that and let all the rest of this go? Why did she always have to push at him for more? Moreover, why did he care? What difference did it matter if she wanted to fall in love with Billy or any other man who reminded her of the consulting detective she couldn't have? Why did it bother him so much? Why did the very thought of his pathologist staring up at the heroine-addicted vagabond with those brown eyes and that genuine smile of hers make him want to throw the lad out the nearest window?

_Am I jealous? Is she right?_

Sherlock shuddered and felt his breath hitch most unwillingly. _No. No. No! Not possible._ _I am trying to save her from being hurt, delivering a kindness as it were. That is all. _

But that wasn't how it felt.What was happening to him? He needed to break this infernal spell she was somehow weaving about him. _Now._ Without warning, he jerked his hand back. Molly was too close. Why was she always too close? He felt suffocated by her very presence. She had to back up, stop looking at him that way, and, for God's sake, stop touching him. She had to. Immediately. Before he—_No, that doesn't even bear considering_.

He released a loud sigh so she'd know just how put out he was. "Molly, we've already spoken on this subject at great length. What else do I need to say to get you to cease your obsession with me? I am content to reciprocate your desire for friendship. However, I will never allow myself to indulge in amorous intentions regarding you. And," he said with an indignant chuckle, "that you think I would ever stoop to being jealous of one of your many romantic interests is not only ridiculous, but nothing short of insulting. You—"

"I never claimed your jealousy was based on romantic intent."

_What? How?_ That startled him, leaving icy slivers of raw fear shooting through his body. His mind raced at this revelation. What had he missed? How had it happened? What other kind of jealousy could she be speaking of? Why else would she think he was—Their friendship. That was it. She'd believed him to be jealous she was making a new friend. One who would replace him? How preposterous! As if anyone could be the friend to her that he could. Humiliation ruled him as considered everything he had said to her and the possible implications she might take away from it. What was she thinking now?

She smiled, but not because she was cheered. No, this smile was too emotionless to be an expression of any kind of joy. It was very similar to one he often employed right before he was going to let someone have it. She also straightened her small frame until she was standing as straight as a board. It was like she'd become numb when it came to him. He instantly hated that. Not only because it was decidedly unlike his pathologist to be so cold, but also because he knew the cause of this numbness could be blamed on no one but himself. _Have I already broken her?_ His heart stuttered inside his chest at the very idea.

"Sherlock, I would never consider that any feelings you might have for me are romantic in nature. The very notion is absurd, isn't it?"

"Exactly." He swallowed. Hard. "Absurd."

Molly's rigid gaze pinned him down like a collector would an insect. Sherlock couldn't look away. He felt naked and exposed and trapped before her. The tables were very much turned. She wasn't broken after all. Instead, she seemed … stronger in this moment than he'd ever seen her before. How was that possible? Whatever power he'd had before was long gone. He'd revealed too much. Unwittingly, of course, but he'd still done it. That had to be it. Taking it back was a coward's move, and he'd never been a coward.

Would she call him out as a liar? He fought to calm himself. Panic would only make this worse. He hadn't lied. He hadn't.

_Did I? _

He shoved that traitorous thought away. That was panic. That was all that was. He had to control this situation before she started to actually believe he did have romantic feelings for her. Everything would be ruined if he didn't do something quickly. If she spoke again, he feared he would be completely undone. Why that was or what she might say to induce such a reaction escaped him, but there it was.

_If Molly ever realizes her full power in her relationship with you, Sherlock Holmes, you are in deep trouble._

Mary's words from all those weeks ago reverberated in his mind. Is this what she had meant? If so, he needed to put a stop to it directly. As his mind furiously raced to think of something—_anything_—to put this matter at an end, to bring back the pliable, overemotional friend he could always count on, a threat far more formidable formed in his mind as he watched Molly's small mouth open as she prepared to speak. _Good God._

She could break him if she wanted.

—**RE—**

"Sherlock, I thought we needed to leav—Is everything all right in here?"

Molly bit back her reply in the wake of John's entrance to the kitchen. She backed away from Sherlock, sure whatever she had to say wouldn't have mattered to him anyway. No doubt, he would have only derided her further for thinking him capable of jealousy in the first place.

There had been a moment, though. A moment, in its smallest measurement, when she'd thought she'd seen a spark of something_ different_ flare within him. Unbidden, her heart had soared in her chest. _Could it be? _Was this why he'd been so touchy last night? Why he'd been so unreasonably angry and cutting at her today? It explained so much. For some foolish reason, she'd had to touch him, trying to prove to herself that he felt something. But just as the idea began to marinate in her mind, she pushed it away. This was Sherlock Holmes. He hadn't jerked away when she touched him this time. He had ever wrapped his fingers around hers. She'd even squeezed his hand, trying to illicit some kind of response, but there was nothing. He just stared down at her and let her hold his hand, almost as if he were waiting for her to come to the realization of how wrong she was all on her own.

That was when she knew it could only have been wishful thinking on her part. _Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Molly, when will you ever learn? _Undoubtedly, it was their constant close proximity that had him so edge. He was used to having more privacy and less hovering. Men, she knew full well, did not like hovering.

But, no matter how much he protested otherwise, she also knew he was jealous. But his jealousy stemmed in the fact that he didn't want any other man like him in her life. No, Sherlock Holmes always wanted to be the center of attention and for everyone to know how one-of-a-kind he was. Moreover, no matter how much he obviously didn't want her in a romantic fashion, he did seem to revel in her feelings for him and wanted nothing to change them.

It was much the same, she supposed, as his relationship with John. He adored how much his partner both affirmed and gloried in his brilliance and how much John understood and wanted to be a part of the fervor that drove him to test his cleverness against the most sullied of criminals and murders in the world. Having to share John with Mary—as much as Sherlock seemed to like her—was not an easy task for the consulting detective. Having his former flatmate's attention further divided by the addition of a baby couldn't have helped matters.

_And now there's me and William._ Molly shook her head in dismay, not bothering to say anything to the two men talking in the kitchen, as she moved past them both and into the lounge. She considered going to her room, but that felt too much like running away and she was tired of running away where Sherlock Holmes was concerned. It never changed anything. Sherlock was Sherlock and would be that way until he was dead. She thought she'd accepted that, but life seemed intent to prove just how wrong she was in that belief. _He's my friend. Why isn't that enough? Why must I always want more? Why must I always be this stupid?_

William was standing by the door, frantically typing on his mobile and muttering to himself. There was a slight tremor to his hands she couldn't help but notice now. _He's not the only addict in the room, _she thought. _I'm just as bad when it comes to Sherlock, aren't I? _

She kept silent, resuming her position on the sofa and pulling the blanket up. He glanced up at her and opened his mouth as if to inquire after her well-being. However, Sherlock and John's return to the room stifled that. She looked down, staring at the blanket wrapped around her so she wouldn't have to look at Sherlock. It would only make her feel more humiliated than she already did.

The coverlet was baby blue in color and bordered with a wide, bedraggled ribbon, but with a softness that came from countless washings. As light as the material was, it was warm. How it had gotten on this sofa, much less on her while she was sleeping, she didn't know. Had Mrs. Hudson come in during the night? It didn't seem possible, but what other explanation could there be? Molly had just made up her mind to thank the landlady for her kindness when she heard Sherlock speak.

"You're overreacting again, John."

"You know what happened the last time you said that, right? Or do I need to remind you?"

"Threatening me with physical violence won't change my mind. You'll get your answers when we get there. Don't worry. I have a flawless plan."

"I've heard that before. In fact, your last flawless plan ended up with you being shot."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I never said that plan was flawless. There were outside variables in that case I didn't take into consideration." He eyed his friend in a way that clearly stated "Don't say another word," which made Molly think there was a lot more to the subject than was being said.

He slipped his Belstaff on and flipped up the collar. Molly was sure she was the only one to catch the slight wince that flashed over his face as he'd finished his task. His ribs were evidently still bothering him, but she knew better than to bring attention to that fact. No, she'd had enough rowing with Sherlock Holmes to last her a while. In fact, she was glad to be rid of him for a few hours.

"Billy? Is it ready?"

William nodded. "Outside waiting for us."

"Perfect. See, John?" he asked, with a gleeful grin. "Flawless plan."

"Famous last words," John answered bitterly before turning to her. "Molly, we shouldn't be gone too long."

She nodded, unsure why he felt the need to tell her that.

"What do you think, Sherlock?" he said, looking back to his friend. "A few hours?"

"I have no idea. This case is an eight at least. I, for one, plan to enjoy it as long as possible." And, with that, the great detective swept from the room and down the stairs.

John shot her an apologetic shrug before clambering out the door after his friend. Molly fingered the blanket, telling herself that she didn't care about Sherlock's lack of manners. How many times had he done the same thing in the lab? She was supposed to drop everything the second he arrived, but he could leave without a word whenever he wanted. Honestly, at times like this, she wasn't even sure why she wanted to be friends with the man, much less anything else. He would be a crap boyfriend. She could see it now. Here they'd be getting off on the sofa and, with one text, he'd be out the door without a word on the trail of some deranged killer. Then, he'd come back in the middle of the night and wake her up to give her all the gory details, his dark hair all windblown and his cheeks flushed with excitement. Or, worse, he'd show up at her job to look at a body and, maybe, after deducing that a victim was poisoned simply by looking at the way his tie was arranged, he'd expect her to drop everything so they could have a quick romp in the supply closet.

_Actually_, she thought, _those scenarios aren't so bad_. _Especially if—_

The creak of a floorboard reminded her she wasn't alone. Her head shot up and she found herself the subject of an in-depth stare. Her cheeks flooded with mortification as she was sure William knew what she'd been thinking of. But before she could open her mouth to even begin to explain, John returned to the room, grabbed William by the collar of his jacket and jerked him from the room.

Molly's face fell into her palms. _Could this day get any worse?_ First, that awful row in the kitchen, then the reminder that she wasn't as past loving Sherlock as she would have hoped at this point, and finally, she'd been caught having naughty daydreams about the consulting detective.

She groaned. "Kill me now, Lord. Anything is better than this." How would she ever face William again? The mere thought of that pushed another wave of humiliation on her. When she couldn't stand thinking about it anymore, she got to her feet, intent on staying busy. After a quick breakfast of scrambled egg and coffee, she cleaned the kitchen within an inch of its life and went upstairs to change clothes and brush her hair. Once she was done with that, she rigorously cleaned that room as well—even going so far as to change the sheets. She felt slightly better when she was done. It was as she after she'd brought her sheets down and put them in the wash and was passing the open door to the living space on her way back up that she noticed it.

Her belongings were everywhere. The films she'd watched throughout the week were still stacked in a crooked tower by the telly. The earrings she'd worn yesterday were on the coffee table. Two pairs of her shoes were in evidence, one under the desk and the other on the floor by the sofa. Her favorite jumper was draped over John's chair and three—no four—of her books were scattered about the room.

_You forgot your place._

It felt like someone had doused her in a pail of ice water, but the truth was inescapable. That's what Sherlock had been trying to tell her. She didn't live here, not really. It was merely a stopover until Moriarty was dealt with. _No wonder he vowed to solve that case as quickly as possible. All the faster to get me out of his flat. _Likewise, as much as she was friends with Sherlock, she wasn't ever going to anything more than that. Somehow, in the chaos of the last few weeks, she'd forgotten that. Seeing her things so haphazardly strewn about brought the point home far more effectively than any cutting remark from Sherlock could.

_Why am I here?_

She thought back to that evening long ago when Sherlock had strolled into her lab and announced that Mycroft was going to take her away. At the time, she'd thought she'd refused because she hadn't wanted to give up living her life. Was that really it, though? Had she unconsciously thought by living here something would develop between them?

_Oh, Molly Hooper, you idiot._

Shaking her head, she hastened about, collecting her possessions. Tears came, but she ignored them, intent on wiping her very presence from the room. When all of her belongings were once again regulated to her—_John's_—room and everything was neat and tidy, she returned to the living area. Where before she had considered herself a welcome flatmate, she now felt like a trespasser.

When the feeling became too much, Molly grabbed her keys and left the flat. She didn't know where she was going and, at this moment, she didn't care. She only knew she had to get there fast.


	15. Tying The Knot

**Chapter Fifteen: Tying The Knot**

"You know, for a brilliant man, you can be incredibly stupid sometimes."

"Pardon?" Sherlock halted his hurried stride to the car abruptly to stare down at the shorter man at his side. He'd been so caught up in trying to figure out why he wasn't feeling his usual post-case euphoria that he was sure he couldn't have heard his partner right.

John shot him a sneer and kept walking, his shoulders hunched against the now misting rain. "You heard me."

Frowning in confusion, Sherlock flipped up his collar as he hastened forward to reach John's car. Getting into the passenger side, he looked over at his friend, who now occupied the driver's side. "Dare I remind you that I just caught a serial killer? How does that make me stupid?"

"Because you nearly got us killed in the process!"

_Overreacting. Again._ "You were never truly in danger. As I told you before, my plan was flawless. In fact, it went so by design that I was almost bored."

"Bored? The priest tried to drug us with tea!"

"How else would he have kept us weak enough to be strangled? But it's not as if we would have drank it."

"I would have!"

Now Sherlock was really confused. "Why?"

"Because some idiot neglected to inform me that the priest was, in fact, the suspect!"

"Why else would we be dressed in suits in a church on a Saturday morning?"

"Revisiting where we first met and fell in love on our anniversary, apparently," John grumbled. "I could punch you for that alone."

"All the other victims were gay and newly engaged. How else would—"

"How did you know that? You got a few photographs of dead, naked men and you somehow deduced that they were all gay and engaged?"

Sherlock shrugged. "They were. The last was even a couple."

John turned away—_still in his snit_—and shoved his keys into the ignition. "I don't want to know how you figured that one out. I don't even know why I asked." As he put the car in gear, he looked over at Sherlock. "You know, I'm a married man. There was an announcement in the papers and everything."

"Your point?"

"My point is that even after marrying a woman and fathering a child with this same woman, people are still trying to make me out to be _your_ lover. Only this time, it was you doing it!" This was followed by a long stream of muttered words that sounded like the kind which would bring a blush to Mrs. Hudson's cheeks if she ever heard them.

_Does he really not get it?_ _Still?_ Sherlock had always assumed that settling into domestic felicity would make one's instincts, wits and the like grow intolerably dull, but surely it wouldn't have affected John this badly? And so soon? "Odds were the priest was going to know my face and yours and, therefore, our names and occupations. This would have raised suspicions. As he undoubtedly was targeting gay men and the rumors have long circulated that you and I are more than just business partners, it seemed reasonable that pretending to be a newly-engaged couple would—"

"Reasonable? 'Reasonable' he says! You proposed to me on bended knee in a Catholic church in front of a priest, Sherlock!"

_Why is he stating the obvious?_ "You're aware you're screaming, right?"

When John then launched into a string of threats of how he was going to shove certain parts of his body in anatomically implausible places, Sherlock sighed. "Even Janine wasn't this angry when she found out our engagement and relationship were counterfeit. As you clearly knew from the beginning I had no such designs on you and were aware enough of what I was doing to effusively accept my mock proposal, I really don't understand all of this carrying on you're doing."

"You kissed me, you sod!"

"On the cheek only. I was proposing in front of witnesses. A kiss is expected. You didn't seem to mind at the time."

John shot him a heated scowl, but didn't reply.

As his friend's unwarranted anger only brought to mind Molly and the angst-ridden events which had unfolded in the kitchen this morning, Sherlock tried to inject a little humor in hopes of turning things around. _Anything to not have to think on Molly Hooper right now. _"John, you did know I have no real designs on you, right? Are we going to have to have the 'I'm-married-to-my-work' discussion again?"

"Stop. Talking."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to throw you out of the car if you don't, you narcissistic git!"

As they were currently speeding down the street and he was experienced in exceeding the limits of his former flatmate's temper, Sherlock decided remaining quiet was, for now, the safest and most logical course of action. _Evidently too early for humor._ Truly, as much as he enjoyed John's companionship—especially when it came to cases—there were times when he was grateful that they didn't live together anymore. For a heterosexual male, the man was inexplicably moody at times. Lord knew how long this latest tizzy was going to last. Thankfully, working John through a temper tantrum was now Mary's problem.

That last thought had Sherlock grinning. Of course, he made sure he was staring out the window when he made this facial expression as the last thing he needed was to incite John any further.

"So, let me see if I have this straight, Sherlock. The whole phony proposal and acting like a couple were done in the hopes that this priest would try to kill us?"

There was a long bout of silence before John said, "Are you going to answer me?"

"I believe you demanded I stop speaking."

Sherlock ducked the fist that flew at his face, watching it connect with the head rest with a sickening thud. _And_, he thought, _having my instincts remain intact is yet another reason domestic felicity is not my area._

Retracting his hand, John spared him a glower before returning his attention to the road. "Explain," he said through gritted teeth. "It's the least you can do after you dragged me out of bed, had me bring you groceries, made me dress in a suit, forced me to act as your fake fiancé, almost got me killed and had me climbing a bell tower with you trying to corner a psychopathic, homophobic priest with gay marriage issues and a gun."

Sherlock grinned again as memories of the last few hours washed over him. "Yeah, it was fun, wasn't it? With his profession and preferred method of murder being strangulation, I must say the gun was an unexpected development. But I did have you bring yours just in case."

John groaned as though heavily put upon. "Did you always know it was him?"

"Of course not. I merely narrowed it down to that particular area of London and used Billy to do a little checking for me. There were two churches in that area and three priests it could have been. That is why we had to go in person as a love-struck couple. It was fortuitous Father Patrick was at the first one we dealt with."

"You were going to do the mock proposal three times?"

He shrugged. "If need be. Why?"

John groaned. "Did Wiggins know you were going to do this?"

"Yes."

"No wonder he wanted to come with us! I bet it was the best entertainment he's had in ages. And you let him!"

"I needed him to call Lestrade at the right time. That's why he was there."

"And you couldn't let me in on the plan?"

"Come, John, you know you're a horrible actor. If I told you I was going to propose, you wouldn't have been able to act surprised with any kind of realism." Sherlock didn't point out that he was also fairly confident John would have refused to participate if he'd known. "Couldn't have the suspect getting suspicious, could we?"

There was a long pause where John repeatedly inhaled and exhaled heavy breaths. Finally, he said, "You're unbelievable."

Sherlock frowned, unsure if this was a compliment. "Thank you?"

"An unbelievable arse, that is!"

"What?" He rolled his eyes at John's continued glare even as they pulled into Baker Street. "Come now, John. You know you had fun today, too. Stop being such a spoil sport. Besides, I got you a great ring, did I not?" He grinned again. "Or, rather, Mycroft did."

He ducked again as an object flew at his head. From the size and the loud chink it made as it hit the window and bounced into the backseat, he would assume that was, in fact, the ring. "Feel free to keep it or sell it."

Sherlock didn't wait for a response as he got out of the car and scurried up to his front door. He rather hoped, given his former flatmate's inflamed state of temper, John would take this as an opportunity to drive home to his wife. But as Sherlock heard the driver's side door slam, he knew that wasn't going to happen. Of course, the second both men were inside the building, John launched into a rant which continued up the stairs and right outside the door of 221B. Sherlock was sure the tirade had something to do with John's dislike of today's activities, but as everything had gone so well, he couldn't really be bothered to care.

If this kept up, he might find himself actually wanting to deal with Molly. She, at least, didn't try to punch him or throw him out of moving vehicles. He pushed open the door and, after removing his coat, tie and suit coat, plopped down in his favorite chair. John, meanwhile, took ownership of his usual chair and continued his rant.

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and did what he did best when John was like this: Feign listening and mumble agreements every few minutes just to shut him up. Meanwhile, he relived the memory of running up the bell tower and capturing the priest and, most of all, having his deductions about the murderer and his motives corroborated by said murderer. The priest had been trying to kill them at the time, of course, but he'd still said it. That was the important part, the best part for Sherlock, finding out his deductions had led him to the correct conclusion.

Strangely, reliving it brought him no pleasure. In fact, he felt the same way he'd felt before he'd received the case. Frustrated and … something. It wasn't boredom or anger or exhaustion or any other feeling he was used to dealing with. Whatever it was had knotted itself inside of him like some kind of parasite. After hours of trying to dislodge it, he'd taken a case, hoping to force it away or, at the very least, help him ignore it. But somehow, in the midst of everything, the knot inside him had expanded to claim more territory.

"You're not even listening to me, are you?"

Sherlock blinked and looked over. "Yes?"

John closed his eyes. "Why am I surprised? You're always going to be … you, aren't you?"

"Who else would I be?"

"Sherlock—"

Afraid John was going to launch into another outburst on the dos and don'ts of casework, Sherlock interrupted. "Doesn't Mary have need of you?"

"Are you trying to get rid of me?"

As he knew "Yes" would only make John stay longer, he said, "Of course not. Just wondering."

"I texted her earlier. Told her I would be later than expected."

"Why? We're home now."

"We need to talk about Molly."

Sherlock pushed himself up from his seat. He should have known putting John off as easily as he had in the kitchen earlier wouldn't last. He walked over to his desk and opened his laptop, intent on checking his email. "There's nothing to discuss."

"Something is going on between you two. You were rude to her all morning."

"I'm always like that."

"No, you're tactless, blunt, and woefully unable to pick up on social cues, but you're never needlessly rude—especially to Molly, especially ever since you came back from the dead."

"You're imagining things."

"Am I? Am I imagining that Wiggins came running out of the kitchen like a scalded cat the second you went in there or, by the time I came in, you and Molly looked ready to start brawling or snogging? Honestly, I couldn't tell which."

"I would never hit Molly."

"I guess that leaves the snogging then, eh?" John asked, with a grin.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away, hating that he'd walked right into that and hating how close his friend was to the truth. "There is nothing going on between me and Molly—never has been and never will be. She is simply staying here until the Moriarty issue is dealt with."

"Even though you told me Moriarty is dead?"

"He _is_ dead."

"Then, if he's dead, she doesn't need to stay here."

That got Sherlock's full attention. "What are you talking about?"  
>John sighed, as though he thought his friend were slow-witted. Sherlock hated that. "Molly is being protected because Moriarty would be after her for helping you."<p>

"Yes. So?"

"If Moriarty is dead, then no one is after Molly."

"But someone is using Moriarty to keep me in London and to cause mayhem, someone who stole his body from a locked facility where it was being stored."

"Why didn't they just cremate the body?"

"Mycroft was having some tests run. I don't really know what type. I don't care. All I know is that the body was stolen and hasn't been found."

"Then my point is still valid."

"That point being?" Sherlock asked.

"If Moriarty is dead, Molly isn't in danger. Whoever is using his face—and body—is doing so as a cover. There is no reason to assume they know or even care about Molly's involvement in faking your death. Therefore, she is free to live wherever she wants."

"We don't know that for sure. It's best if she stays here for now."

"Best for whom?"

Sherlock turned his full body to stare John down. "What are you getting at?"

"Has Molly put the same clues together and asked to move out? Is that what you two were going on about this morning? Why you were so mad at her? She wants to move out and you don't want to be alone again?"

Sherlock gaped at John, unsure whether to be happy he was so off point or irritated that his friend was an idiot. Finally, he sighed and turned back to the laptop. "You know," he said, recalling John's earlier statement, "for a somewhat intelligent man, you are incredibly stupid _a lot_."

"So, if that's not it, what is it?"

"It's nothing."

"Wiggins is—"

"Will you stop calling him that? His name is Billy. Call him Billy."

"He prefers Wiggins. I'll call him that."

Sherlock gritted his teeth, remembering how Molly had called him "William." Why could no one call the man by his true name? Was that really so hard?

"What was that?"

"What was what?" Sherlock asked.

"You said something about Molly calling him William."

"I did?" As Sherlock didn't remember speaking aloud about that, he kept his eyes focused on the laptop so John couldn't see the mortification on his face. "Why would I care what Molly calls anyone?"

John squinted at Sherlock, studying him in a way that left Sherlock feeling uneasy and exposed, so much so that he jumped to his feet. "I'm going to bed."

"What?"

"Yes, been up for an age. Really tired now. You'll see yourself out?"

"Sherlock, if Molly wants to move out, she—"

Sherlock, who had been on his way to his room, turned around. "Molly can leave whenever she likes. I assure you I will relish living alone again. Not having to wait to use my own toilet, not having her books lying everywhere, not tripping over her shoes as they are always—" He stopped as he began to notice something.

"What?" John asked, apparently catching on that something was out of order. "Did Mrs. Hudson clean again? Sherlock, there is nothing wrong with the woman wanting to remove several inches of dust from the room. You should be grateful, not—"

"Molly's belongings are missing."

"What?"

Sherlock turned, irritated his companion couldn't understand. "Molly had several items scattered about this room. They're all missing."

John shrugged. "Maybe she put them away. People actually do that every now and again, you know."

Irritation festered. "No," he said as he walked into the kitchen. It was cleaned in a sparse, regimented style that was Molly's signature. It was how she kept the lab and how she'd kept her own kitchen he'd noticed the few times he'd been in her old flat. Everything in its place. No frills, bits of decoration or "homey touches" like Mrs. Hudson often employed which usually drove him insane.

"See?" John said, coming in behind him. "Molly just cleaned up a bit. You should thank her. I bet she's upstairs right now sleeping off this morning."

Sherlock's eyes zeroed in on the side of the sink. The spoon was missing. Every day since her first morning after moving in, Molly used a single spoon to stir sugar into her coffee. Instead of just tossing it in the sink and grabbing another when she made a second cup, she kept the spoon on a daintily folded paper towel next to the sink. No matter what, the spoon stayed on the paper towel until the next morning, when she would replace it with a clean spoon.

Now it was missing. He went to the freezer and pulled it open, quickly counting. Five. There were five cups of sorbet there, the exact number that had been in there since the previous evening when she'd indulged. He'd upset her earlier—he knew he had—but she hadn't turned to sorbet to drown her sorrows.

_Bad sign._ He slammed the freezer door shut and hastened from the kitchen, John at his heels. "What is going on, Sherlock?"

This continued as he took the steps to her room at a run. He was overreacting. He knew he was. He could check his phone to see that he was, but he didn't. The need to see her in person was eating at him.

"If she's sleeping, you're going to disturb her," John warned.

Sherlock ignored this and slammed open the door to her bedroom. It was empty and pristinely cleaned. Even the bed was made with military precision. Not a speck of dust was anywhere and all of Molly's belongings were put in their proper locations. And, there, sitting on the chest of drawers mocking him, was her purse and mobile.

He jerked his phone out even as John started coming up with excuses. "Maybe she went to Tesco."

"Without her purse? How would she pay for anything?" Sherlock said as he dialed his brother and held the phone to his ear.

"Maybe she swiped your card. I used to do that quite a bit when we lived together."

"Only because I allowed it, and it meant you went to the store without whining incessantly."

Mycroft picked up. "To what do I owe the pleasure of an actual call, brother dear?"

"Where's Molly?"

"What makes you think I have her?"

"You have men watching this flat all hours of the night and day, Mycroft. I know you know where she is."

"Maybe she went into work," John added.

Sherlock glared at him. "She switched with another doctor. This is her free weekend."

John frowned. "Maybe she went in to get away from you. Whatever happened between you two in the kitchen clearly upset her."

"Sentiment getting to you, Sherlock?" Mycroft crooned from over the phone. "Warned you about that. You're overreacting. She's still in the flat, most likely bemoaning this morning."

"No, she's not. I'm telling you she's not."

There was a long moment of strange clicking noises coming from Mycroft's end of the extension. "No one saw her leave. She must still be in the flat."

"She wouldn't leave without telling someone and making sure she was seen. She's too worried about Moriarty."

"Unless you really did upset her, and she took off without thinking," John suggested. At Sherlock's pointed glare, he grabbed his own mobile. "I'll just ring Bart's and see if she's there."

Mycroft, who apparently heard John's statement, said, "That is the problem with emotions, Sherlock. They make you do illogical things."

"Just find her," Sherlock said, ringing off because he didn't want to hear any more.

Icy tendrils of raw, irrational fear flowed through him into the knot in his stomach as he waited for John. He tried to shut it off, to keep his mind focused on logic. This was the way to find her. She was fine. She had to be. The knot expanded again, threatening to explode until he was ready to scream in agony and frustration. What if she wasn't? _What if you chased her away and she's in danger right now because of you? What then?_

Before he could come up with any kind of answer, John was off the phone, having verified what Sherlock already knew. Molly was not at work.

Fear took over then.


	16. The Other One

**Chapter Sixteen: The Other One**

When it came to brainwork, there was no room for panic. Composure and rationality were vital instruments needed to sift through the often mundane details of a case to reach just the right conclusion. Having one's acumen compromised was not an option. Moreover, emotion was best dealt with in minimal doses, quickly compartmentalized and compressed in favor of retaining control over one's mind at all times. This last was a lesson drilled into Sherlock from a young age, always by Mycroft.

Sherlock agreed with his older brother. Never to his face, of course—_Let's not be ridiculous_—but he knew an overabundance of sentiment could leave one blind to that which should be observed. Or, in his particular experience, a surplus of emotion and panic meant he saw _everything_. The details of the room fairly shouted at him. Like a crush of people all crying out to be heard at once, one couldn't process any of what was being said, couldn't put the data points together to form any inferences.

Years ago, he'd learned this left him blind and frustrated which, in turn, caused his feelings and panic to run higher and the details to come to him faster and faster until he was fairly drowning in an emotional tailspin of useless information.

_No, that is the surest way to insanity._

It was one of the reasons he'd first turned to drugs. To calm the insanity. Often, he yearned for the feeling of not caring about anything. It was blissful, that level of numbness. But the drugs, like everything else in his life, soon brought with them another level of insanity. _No good. Concentrate. Molly. Must find Molly._ His eyes scanned the room, trying to put together an answer from the clues left behind. _Find her, damn you. _But there were too many things to see and none of them helped him form a deduction to give him the answer he sought. His panic heightened. Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to focus on breathing.

"She's fine," John said.

"I know that," Sherlock barked. "Be quiet."

He got a moment of heavenly silence before his former flatmate launched another attempt at ineffectual consolation. "Molly was upset this morning. I could tell. She probably took off without thinking. Just to get some space. You're intolerable when you're in high temper, you know."

Sherlock ignored all of this. The last thing he needed was a reminder of everything he'd said to her.

_My fault. _

_Breathe in. _

_Breathe out. _

_In through the nose and out through the mouth._

_Accelerated heart rate._

_Relax shoulders, unclench hands, focus on breathing and nothing else._

_Compartmentalize and compress._

"No one came in here. There's—"

His eyes flashed open. "Shut up! Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I didn't see that everything is perfectly tidy, almost sterile? She cleaned because she was upset, more upset than a container of sorbet could abate. Additionally, there are no signs of struggle, everything is in its place. Every belonging of hers is currently in this room. Every one. She moved them here on purpose because—"

He couldn't finish. Not out loud. _Because I made her feel unwelcome, because I hurt her so much that she thought more about getting out than she did her safety. Stupid, stupid girl! Sentiment. A deadly cancer eating away at one's reasoning skills._

Guilt and fear and a plethora of emotions he couldn't begin to name, much less understand flooded him.

_Calm yourself. Find her and then you can make things right._

He cleared his throat and continued, "She made her bed."

"So?"

"Molly only makes her bed when she's expecting company or on Saturdays when she changes the sheets. Otherwise, she doesn't see the logical purpose when she'll only climb back into the bed again at the end of the day."

"How do you even know that?"

"I pay attention," he snapped. "My point is that this isn't a kidnapping. Molly left of her own accord and quickly, taking only her keys with her."

"You'd have thought she'd at least grabbed an umbrella with all the rain—"

Something suddenly occurred to him, something he remembered seeing before that now made sense. _Damn sentiment. Damn Mycroft!_ He shot out of the bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time until he was in the living area. His eyes locked on the tall, black umbrella currently propped against his sofa.

John was hot on his heels. "What? What is it?"

He held the offensive object up for inspection, knowing what he was looking for. "Recognize this?"

"What does an umbrella have to do with—"

Sherlock found it. Holding the handle against his mouth, he said, "You have five minutes, brother, or I won't be responsible for what happens next."

"No need for threats, Sherlock. I'm right here."

Both men turned to find Mycroft standing in the doorway, his usual sneer firmly in place and one eyebrow cocked smugly upward. "Found her yet?"

"Where is she?"

"What the hell is going on?" John asked. "Someone needs to explain to the one human being in the room."

Sherlock kept glaring at his elder sibling. "He installed a listening device on his umbrella and then conveniently left it behind so he could be nosy. Another experiment, Myc?"

Mycroft gave an indelicate shudder at his reviled nickname. "I did what was necessary. You're a loose cannon these days. You know what happens when you're like that. You're already in enough trouble, don't you think?"

"Let me see if I can guess the rest. You listen in and then conveniently drop by under the pretense of reclaiming your property. Except Molly's emotions got the better of her, and she left before you could get here. Did you intercept her down the street? Just happened by when your men told you where she was? Then, you waited to see what would happen when I noticed she was gone?"

Mycroft stayed silent, his face a mask that gave away nothing.

The longer the silence lasted, the more frustration reigned. _Is there still time or has he already sent her off? Does he really think I can't find her if he has?_ "Where is she now?"

Mycroft released an exasperated breath. "I tried to warn you, but you wouldn't listen. Something needed to be done."

"Yes, yes. I needed to learn my lesson. Where is she?"

"You've never learned your lesson when it comes to sentiment! That is the problem."

"Where _is_ she?"

"How can you be expected to uncover Moriarty if you allow yourself to be so weakened? Do you think the Powers That Be are just going to let you remain free if you don't find the person responsible for taking down most of the country's communications systems?"

"Where. Is. She?"

"Ms. Hooper's presence in this flat was compromising your work, a fact that needed to be demonstrated to you. Your reaction when you returned home as well as this obvious … temper tantrum is more than enough proof that you are woefully—"

"If I have to ask my question again, you'll be moaning the answer through a breathing tube. You might be the smarter of the two of us, Mycroft, but I believe we can both agree I'm infinitely better when it comes to applying brute strength."

With a hiss of indignity, Mycroft stiffened like a cat doused in water. "Your pathologist is at her friend's house. Meena, I believe her name is. I dropped Ms. Hooper off. She, of course, is being watched by my men. As I understand it, she is currently … What is the expression? 'Crying her eyes out?'" He smirked. "No doubt because you hurt her feelings."

Relief rushed through Sherlock's veins, the feeling more pleasurable than any hit of heroin had ever been. He closed his eyes briefly before opening them again. "You can go." He gestured towards the door. "Don't come back."

"And what am I to tell my superiors, Sherlock? How much longer do you think I can hold them off with petty excuses? All these months, and you have nothing to show for it."

"I have plenty to show for it."

"Really? Like what?"

"Not _what_, brother dear, _who_. I've got three suspects."

That got Mycroft's full attention. In fact, it wiped the ingrained sneer right off his face. "Three? Who? How?"

"It was simple, really. The fact that the Moriarty transmission took place just as I was about to leave on your suicide mission tells me whoever is behind it wanted me to stay in London. Alive."

"Suicide mission?" John blurted out, barging his way back into the conversation. "What in hell are you talking about? Are you saying …? Oh my God." His face paled in a way that never boded well. "Do you mean to tell me that you … You were really going to … Without even telling me?"

Sherlock held up a hand. "Not now, John. You can hit me for not telling you later. Or, better yet, deck Mycroft for coming up with the mission in the first place."

John's knees gave out on him, and he crashed to the sofa, seemingly unable to process what he'd heard. Sherlock ignored his best friend in favor of dealing with his brother. "So I asked myself, who had the most to gain from my remaining here?"

"Who?" Mycroft asked, anticipation blazing in his eyes.

"Well, there's the obvious choice. The woman. She certainly knows enough people and has enough seductive prowess to find someone to get the job done. Plus, we all know she wouldn't want to see me die." He paused theatrically. "Sentiment and all."

"Impossible."

If Sherlock hadn't been watching for it, he knew he would have missed it. The slight twitch in Mycroft's jaw, the way his eyes darted away for the barest hint of a second. But Sherlock did see it. More importantly, he grinned so his brother would know he saw it.

"And why is it so impossible, Myc? Do you think she couldn't have gotten loose from her witness protection scheme in America? Do you really think she wouldn't grow bored? A woman like her? Or is there another reason her involvement would be impossible? Her death, perhaps?"

Mycroft looked at him, long and hard. It was a measuring stare, one Sherlock was well used to and didn't bother to conceal the truth from. "Well played, Sherlock. How long have you known?"

"Since long before you sent John to lie to me."

John finally found his voice, sputtering as he tried to come up with some plausible explanation.

"Forget it," Sherlock said, casting a glance behind him. "We'll call it even. One lie for another."

"I'm still going to hit you," John grumbled.

Sherlock grinned as he turned back to look at Mycroft. "No, John, you won't."

Mycroft's lips thinned in distaste. "You saved Irene Adler?"

Sherlock laughed. "Of course. She's been alive and free all this time. And, what's more, you didn't know a thing about it. Tell me, brother dear, is sentiment affecting _your_ work? Have you finally found a goldfish to your liking?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Who are the other suspects?"

"You."

Mycroft seemed startled by that, something Sherlock hadn't seen in quite a while. "Me?"

"Yes. You have means, motive, and opportunity."

"You really think I would go to that end to spare your life?"

"You'd exhausted all other avenues. Your only other option was to let me die, and we both know how that would have _broken your heart_." Sherlock took a step forward. "Not to mention what you would have gone through having to deliver the news of a dead son to Mummy." He studied his brother's face. "_Again_."

The shared another long look. This time, it was Sherlock seeking long-sought answers and Mycroft's turn to conceal. His older brother didn't. Instead, his head bowed and his shoulders slumped in apparent defeat. Sherlock stepped back, feeling startled himself at the ramifications of what he had just learned. There were boundaries to Mycroft's fraternal loyalty and affection, after all. He'd always suspected it, of course, but to have it thus confirmed was … not pleasant. If he were one given to melancholy and its poetic affects, he might have said the truth felt like a dagger in the heart. But he wasn't and he didn't. Instead, he reached up to wipe off the sweat that had collected at his brow and ignored the way his hand shook as he did it.

"I see," he said.

"Sherlock—"

"No." He didn't want to hear any explanations from Mycroft. They were as empty now as they had been all those years ago. There was nothing more to say on the matter. He spun on his heel and made his way over to his chair, plopping down into it in a most undignified manner. "I suppose this leaves the final suspect to discuss."

John piped up from the sofa. "Who's left?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock supplied.

"Moriarty?" Mycroft and John echoed in unison.

"You just said he was dead," John said.

"He _is_ dead," Mycroft said.

"Indeed," Sherlock granted, "Jim Moriarty is dead. I was talking about the other one."

"The other one?" Mycroft repeated. "What _other one_?"

"Professor James Moriarty."


	17. Solving Sherlock

**Chapter Seventeen: Solving Sherlock**

"It's going to be fine. You'll see."

"You keep saying that, but I don't think you're right."

"What do you want me to say? All men are pigs?"

Meena gave a watery smile. "Better," she warbled before dissolving into tears again.

Molly sighed and handed her friend another tissue. Three hours she'd been here and, so far, they had covered Meena's abortion, Carter's finding out about Meena's abortion, Carter's subsequent breaking up with Meena, Meena's new boyfriend Charlie, and now the unpleasant discovery of Charlie's wife, Susan.

Meena mopped at her face. "Sorry. I know I should break it off with him, but he swears he loves me, and she's a total munter."

"And you've been seeing him for how long now?"

"Two weeks," Meena replied, blowing her nose loudly.

Molly bit her lip, unsure if she should say what she was thinking. But as she knew honestly was the best policy, she forged ahead. "Perhaps it's not too late to save your heart for someone else? Someone _not_ married?"

Meena froze, her jaw falling open as she stared at Molly. Her already large eyes had widened considerably in what Molly could only assume was surprise.

"What?" Molly asked. _Is the idea of dating someone not married so shocking to Meena?_

"How can you—of all people—say that to me?"

Molly frowned. "What do you mean, 'Me of all people'?"

"You're in love with that plonker of a detective, even though you know he won't ever return your affections, will never appreciate you, and is as mean as a snake. Surely you—of all people—know you don't get to decide who you fall in love with?"

"I-I-I," Molly stammered, trying to defend herself, but unable to come up with the right words. Finally, she gave a dismissive wave and said, "It's not the same thing."

"Isn't it?" Meena asked, reaching over for another tissue. Finding the box empty, she got to her feet, stumbled over to her sink and splashed cool water over her face.

"I'm not in love with Sherlock."

Meena's head popped up, and she stared her down long enough for Molly to know she was being called out on a lie.

Clearing her throat awkwardly, Molly began again. "OK. I will admit I have … _feelings_ where Sherlock is concerned, but they're irrelevant. I'm not seeking a relationship with him—not like that." _There_, she thought. _That, at the very least, was the truth._

"Really? Is that why you're now inexplicably sharing a flat with him?" Meena wiped her face with a napkin of questionable cleanliness before turning to Molly with a frown.

Molly shook her head. "I told you. It's just because we're working a case together. It's easier if I live with him."

"Easier for whom? Him? What are you to him exactly? Assistant? Maid? Doormat?"

Molly rolled her eyes. "I'm his friend."

"Yes, but what _kind_ of friend?"

Molly was about to say "The kind of friend who gets him body parts and lets him play in her lab," but something in Meena's tone halted her. "What is _that _supposed to mean?"

Meena crossed her thin arms over her ample chest. "I've never known a male 'friend' who didn't want to get in my knickers."

"That's you."

"No, that's men. If sex is offered, they'll take it. They don't even have to like you, much less feel something more. And, with you being in love with him, it's like you're serving yourself on a silver platter."

Molly shook her head. "Sherlock isn't like that."

"Is he gay then? That would explain _so_ much."

"What? No!"

"Are you sure? The papers all seem to think he had something going with that partner of his, Dr. Watson."

"Neither Sherlock nor John are gay. John is a married to a woman with whom he has a baby, and Sherlock is …" Molly's voice petered off as she tried to figure out the word to describe him. "He's … not interested in sex."

"Sure he isn't." Meena smirked. "All men are interested in sex at one time or another. _All_ of them. They spend their whole lives trying to get it out of every woman they meet—or man as the case may be. Not that the detective in question would have to try too hard with those eyes and that dark, curly hair of his. And the coat. And those cheekbones. And his neck. Mmmm." She returned to the lounge and flopped back on the couch with a wistful expression. "As long as he didn't speak, he could have any woman he wanted." Then, with a swift shake of her head, she said. "Not that I'd have him on a bet after the way he treated me."

At the other end of the couch, Molly grabbed a cushion and hugged it to her chest. "I'm sorry about that … again. He's only like that when he's in a hurry. He didn't mean—"

"Stop making excuses for him," Meena interrupted. "Just get away before he hurts you … really hurts you."

"He wouldn't hurt me, not on purpose."

"Purpose or not, get out now. My couch is available," She gave a game-show-model wave about the room. "You know you're always welcome to stay here."

Molly looked around the place, taking note of the photos of Meena's various boyfriends—some with heads cut out and some not—scattered about the cramped flat, the moss green carpet that in desperate need of a hoovering, the posters taped to the walls of distant lands like Bangkok; California; and the Bahamas, and the second-hand bookshelf loaded down with Meena's collection of rare nail polishes. And, in that moment, Molly knew she didn't belong here anymore than she belonged at Sherlock's. _Do I belong anywhere? Have I ever?_ Even the small flat she had before Tom came into her life hadn't really felt like home. It was more just a place to sleep in between shifts at St. Bart's. Finally, she shook her head, more forcefully this time. "I told you. I have to stay with him until this case is finished."

"And what happens when the case is over?"

"I'll find my own flat. The same as I would have if I had stayed here with you." Molly smiled, trying to project a happiness she didn't feel. Remaining on the topic of Sherlock was not an option right now. "Admit it. You like having the place to yourself again."

"You're probably right. It was always a little awkward when I would bring someone home and you'd be here." She shrugged. "Still … Remember that night in Uni we both rushed out the shop to get ice cream in our pyjamas?"

Molly smiled as the memory popped in her head. "And we thought we looked alright until we got there and saw ourselves reflected in the glass door?"

"Exactly! I can't believe you let me go out like that. I looked like a right cow!"

Molly giggled. "And you could have told me my shirt had a hole in the front. I'm sure I flashed a few people."

Meena laughed. "I wish you had. You dress too much like a boy as it is."

"I do not!"

"You do," Meena said. "But then again, I suppose you wouldn't look like yourself if you wore all the getup the rest of us women do. You're pretty in your own way."

"Thank you," Molly said, feeling her heart warming as much as her cheeks.

"Of course, there was that time you dressed up for that costume party. Remember? You wore a dress that night that made you look like my gran. Awful thing. Who were you supposed to be again?"

Molly rolled her eyes. "Marie Curie. She's a famous scientist."

"She might have been famous, but it wasn't for her fashion sense!" Meena said, laughing.

Her friend's humor was so infectious, Molly couldn't help but join in. The laughing continued for a few minutes until both women quietened, staring at each other.

"I've really missed you, you know," Meena said.

"Missed you, too," Molly replied. "And I really am sorry about what Sherlock said that night. He didn't mean it. Not really. He's just…"

"Mental?" Meena supplied. "And don't lie. He _did_ mean it. You didn't see his eyes. He's a machine, that one. No feelings at all. I don't know how you stand being near him. I mean, he's gorgeous and all, but so cold and unfeeling. It makes him ugly."

"He's not unfeeling, actually. He's one of the most emotional men I know."

"Now you're losing your mind."

"Really," Molly said. "It's true. It's hard to see at first, but once you get to know him—really get to know him—it's obvious. He doesn't experience emotions like the rest of us; he's flooded with them. All the time. Could you imagine? Feeling everything all of the time? It would drive the sanest man mad as a hatter. What other option would you have but try to ignore your feelings, to dampen them as much as possible? On top of that, he's smart—smarter than the smartest person you know."

"You're the smartest person I know," Meena pointed out.

"Exactly. He makes me look like a simpleton. Could you imagine always being the smartest person in the room with everyone struggling to catch up all the time? You pick up on things not just minutes faster than they do, days … months … years faster. Your brain works so hard and so fast, burning like the hottest fire. You would need fuel to keep that fire going, stimulation."

"Stimulation?"

"Yes. Knowledge, challenges, mysteries to solve."

Meena cocked an eyebrow. "Is this where you're going to say 'The brain is muscle. If you don't use it, you lose it'?"

"No, that's not it for Sherlock. If he doesn't use his brain, it will destroy him."

"That's not true. He's human, isn't he? If he stops solving cases, he might get bored, but he won't die. He's being overly dramatic, and worse, you're letting him. That's why he's so mean, because you and people like you tell him it's OK and clean up all his messes. You're an enabler."

"No, Meena. For most everyone else, I would agree with you. But Sherlock is different. Can't you understand? Try to imagine. Put yourself in his shoes. You not only know things before everyone else, you have to constantly prove what you know because they don't believe you or they haven't caught on. How patient would you be in that situation? How quickly would it be before you were barking at people the way he does? Sherlock's had to learn how to cope with both of these things because he can't turn them off."

"So that means it's all right for him to be a git?"

"No, but it does mean we should be more patient with him. After all, he's learned to channel it all into something else, into something good."

"What?"

"Solving things; finding answers, helping people by being the best. And he is the best. People bring him mysteries—ones no one can solve—and he figures out the answer. He's brilliant. The most brilliant man I've ever met or will ever meet."

"But he's mean and coarse and stomps on people's feelings."

Molly shrugged. "He can't let anything get in the way of him finding the answer. If he worried about people's feelings, politeness, and the like all the time, he'd never leave his flat."

"There's more to life than answering questions and being the best, Molly."

"Not for Sherlock Holmes. For him, it's everything. The rest is just …"

"What? The rest is what?" Meena prodded when Molly fell silent.

"Transport."

"Transport?"

"Yes, it's just the stuff he has to get through to get to the next mystery."

The second the words came out of her mouth, something clicked into place in Molly's brain. She knew everything she said was true—had always known it—but there was something about saying the words aloud that made them more powerful, made her understand them fully. Sherlock would never love her, but not because she wasn't good enough. It had nothing to do with her at all. He couldn't love anyone. Not like that. His life was so careful and structured and, at times, bordering on the monotonous, not because he wanted it that way, but because it had to be that way. Emotions would drown him.

She remembered back to a time when she'd overheard Mycroft and Sherlock talking.

"Sentiment is a defect found in the losing side, little brother. You would be better off if you would accept that once and for all."

It hadn't made sense at the time, but it did now. It would obliterate him and everything he had so carefully crafted to keep him sane. To give himself over to love—an emotion that could be dangerous to anyone—would utterly destroy Sherlock Holmes. More to the point, it would destroy all the good he brought about in the world through the mysteries he could solve. It was like asking a god to give up his divinity to live among the mortals or asking Superman to give up his powers to live as a human with Lois Lane. She remembered watching that movie when she was a child. It hadn't turned out so well.

"I'm sorry. I have to go. I owe him an apology," Molly suddenly blurted out, jumping to her feet.

"What? What on earth could you have done to him? He's the one who—"

Molly moved towards the door, her back to Meena. "You don't understand."

"You're right, and I never will. You should run away from him. He's only using you. You know that, and what's worse, you're letting him."

Molly stopped, her hand on the door latch. She turned to face her oldest friend. "He says the same thing about you."

"What?"

"He says I shouldn't remain friends with you because you're shallow and you only keep me around to make yourself feel better about your life. I'm your measuring stick. As long as I'm lonelier and worse off than you are, you're OK. The second I have something you want, you seek to take it for yourself."

All the blood in Meena's face drained away. "What?"

"He's wrong, just as you are wrong about him. You're both my friends. You don't have to understand why I respect him or even like that I'm friends with him, but you do have to accept it—just as he must accept my relationship with you. You are a good person with a good heart, Meena. I have known that since the first day we met, and you have proven it me again and again throughout the course of our friendship. Likewise, Sherlock is a good man who has been a better friend to me than even he would ever care to admit. I'm honored to have you both as friends, but I make the decisions of who stays or goes in my life. No one else. Do you understand?"

Meena couldn't seem to speak. Her eyes had a far away look to them, but she still managed a feeble nod.

"Good," Molly said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must return home. I have an apology to deliver. Are you going to be OK?"

Meena nodded again, her watery smile returning.

"Ring me next week then, and we'll have lunch."

And, with that, Molly headed back to 221B Baker Street and a certain arrogant detective.


	18. The Process Of Deduction

**Chapter Eighteen: The Process of Deduction**

Contrary to popular opinion, Sherlock Holmes was not a man who liked to cause pain.

Yes, he frequently got frustrated with those around him and said cutting, hurtful things, but that was simply to get them to shut up so he could think. Manners were tedious and irrelevant when a there was a game afoot. Why couldn't everyone understand that? He solved cases which had brought hundreds of murderers to justice, returned millions of pounds of stolen merchandise and artifacts, and saved more lives than he could accurately count. That was for the greater good of humanity—whether the offended humans around him chose to acknowledge that or not.

And, yes, his deductions more regularly than not triggered suffering, but that was merely a hazard of his profession and a consequence of the average person's stupidity and inability to see what was right in front of his or her face. How was that his fault? When aware of the agony his words wrought—which John frequently pointed out was not as often as it should have been—Sherlock made a point to keep his supposition proclamations brief. After all, he wasn't some cruel fiend who reveled in torturing someone.

Mycroft, of course, didn't count.

Sherlock took a long, unneeded breath before he deigned to respond to his brother's query. "Professor James Moriarty."

"Professor James Moriarty doesn't exist." Mycroft's response was swift. _Too swift._

Sherlock lifted a condescending brow. "You sure about that?"

Still on the sofa, John scratched his head and asked, "Who is Professor James Moriarty?"

Mycroft glared back at Sherlock. "Positive."

"Well, I'm _positive_ you're wrong," Sherlock said, savoring every syllable. Now _this_ was a torture he could get behind. It almost made up for his earlier disappointment of having his long-held suspicions concerning Mycroft's fraternal shortcomings confirmed.

"Who is Professor James Moriarty?" John repeated.

Mycroft, talking over John, said, "How many times must we have this discussion? He's nothing more than an alter ego."

Sherlock sing-songed, "Wr-o-ng!"

"I may as well be the rug here for all the attention anyone's paying me," John muttered. "Who the bloody hell is Professor James Moriarty?"

"Jim Moriarty's alter ego," Mycroft answered.

"Jim Moriarty's _older brother_," Sherlock corrected.

"The man has never been seen outside of Jim Moriarty. There are no documents proving he exists. In fact, the second Jim Moriarty died, all whispers concerning the professor went with him." Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Tell me, _little brother_, in all the time you were deconstructing Moriarty's criminal web, did you ever come across a hard trail for the professor?"

Sherlock looked away, hating having to repeat himself. This conversation was one he and Mycroft had had on several occasions, ever since Jim had originally made himself known.

"Well?" Mycroft pressed.

"No, but that proves he's well versed at covering his tracks. Nothing more."

"I have the world's best spies, analysts, and informational systems at my fingertips, Sherlock. Do you really think anyone in existence could hide himself so completely from me?"

"_I _could."

"Only because you've known me all your life and would, therefore, know how best to avoid me. The professor, even if he exists, is not so fortunate."

"It's the only thing that makes sense." Sherlock knew he sounded petulant, but he didn't care. This torturing wasn't proving to be as delightful as he'd anticipated. _Trust Mycroft to take away all my enjoyment. Just like when we were children._

"That doesn't make it true." The elder Mr. Holmes placed the umbrella under his arm. "Your skills appear to be slipping, dear Sherlock." He sighed and gave a rueful smile. "Pity. I suppose I shall have to tell my superiors you'll need more time."

"To find him, you mean? No. That would be a colossal waste of my brilliance. The professor isn't interested in being found right now. He knows I know about him. No doubt, after this latest investigation of mine, he also knows I've connected him to his little publicity stunt. He clearly has a plan of action in mind. When he wishes to make himself known to me, he will do so."

"And in the meantime?"

Sherlock shrugged. "We wait."

Mycroft frowned, letting out a disgruntled noise through his nose.

_That's more like it_. "Tell your superiors the country is safe for now. Whatever the professor is after won't happen until he's reached out to me. That is more than enough time to figure out how to dismantle his plan." He walked over to his chair and collapsed into it with an undignified, yet satisfying, plop. "Now make yourself useful and fetch back my pathologist."

The rueful smile returned. "Have you considered that after the way you've treated her, she might not want to come back?"

Fear pooled in Sherlock's stomach, but he did his best to ignore it. He'd done more than consider that dreadful notion, but it was ridiculous. If Molly Hooper was anything, she was constant in everything she did. It was one of her best qualities—something he'd staked his life on more than once. She was committed to staying with him until he solved this case. She might be upset, but she wouldn't willingly leave him.

_But what if this time is different? What if this time you pushed her too far?_

Pushing all of this aside, Sherlock smiled brightly, trying to present as many teeth as possible. "I, unlike you, dear Mycroft, have friends. Molly counts herself among those. Friends, I have discovered, are fiercely loyal—Something I'm sure you would know nothing about." He turned to John, who was still sitting on the sofa and staring at the pair of them as if he were watching an episode of _Jeremy Kyle_. Sherlock softened his smile. "Care for a spot of tea, _friend_?"

Catching on, John shot to his feet, stared Mycroft down, and declared, "Absolutely!"

"Lovely. Kettle's in the kitchen. Get to it," Sherlock replied with a regal wave of his hand. He looked back to Mycroft as John, grumbling curses that would make a sailor blush, marched to the kitchen. Sherlock knew he'd pay for that later, but, for now, he kept his gaze firmly rooted to Mycroft. When the sound of water pouring into the kettle reached the lounge, he smirked. "See?"

"I'll leave you to your … goldfish … then."

Sherlock didn't deign to reply as Mycroft took his leave, not bothering to shut the door behind him. Remaining where he was, Sherlock's eyes darted to the kitchen, trying to gauge how big of a fit John was liable to throw. There was already Molly's feather's to soothe—and God knew how he was going to manage that—but taking on John as well as enough to make him want to leave London permanently. As he heard his former roommate finish up the makings of the tea, Sherlock grabbed a nearby newspaper and proceeded to hide behind it.

When John got close enough to slap his teacup down on the small table adjacent to his chair, Sherlock flinched behind his paper. After all, the last time he'd had to apologize to his friend, he came home with a bloody nose. He waited for John to take his seat, but he didn't. No, he seemed content to stand there forever. Intent on keeping control of things, Sherlock smoothed out his face, carefully folded the paper as if he had all the time in the world, put it away, and turned his attention to the tea.

"Thank you."

John didn't respond. Sherlock took the cup in his hand, noting by its faintly creamy brown color that it had been prepared just the way he preferred. _Perfect._ Settling back in his chair, he glanced up. "Problem?"

Fortunately, the doctor looked irritated, but not violent. "'Thank you'? That's all I get?"

"I thanked you for the tea," Sherlock pointed out. "It's my understanding that is the appropriate way to show appreciation. Did you want a tip as well?"

John shook his head as he took his own tea to his chair. Taking a seat, he gulped down a fair amount before he said, "You're lucky I like Mycroft less than you."

Sherlock gave a jaunty grin. "I'm your best friend. Mycroft doesn't even compare." He took a long swallow from his cup. The second the tea hit his mouth, so did the taste. _Dear Lord!_ Oh, the horrible, horrible taste. He immediately dropped his cup and spat out the offensive liquid on the floor, clawing at his tongue to rid himself of the obnoxious flavor of items that should never, never be mixed together for consumption. "Y-y-you put brown sauce in my tea?" he demanded.

"Yep." John laughed as he raised his own cup in a mock toast. "I'm _your _best friend, Sherlock Holmes. The only one you're ever likely to have. Next time, show some respect or your tea won't be the only thing I'll have to doctor."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stomped into the bathroom to clean his teeth. Anything to get rid of the infernal taste which refused to wane. Honestly, he'd never be able to fully appreciate brown sauce again, which was a shame as he enjoyed it on a good bacon butty. He hoped John was happy with himself. Perhaps, he considered, his best friend would hie himself off to his own quarters and leave Sherlock in peace.

Unfortunately, John was still sitting there when he returned. He'd cleaned up the spilled tea and offered up a new cup sitting daintily on its saucer. Sherlock eyed it with one brow raised.

"Just tea this time," John said. "Promise."

Sherlock snatched it and resumed his seat. He lifted the cup to his mouth, but stopped. Casting a glance at the doctor, he sniffed at his beverage.

John guffawed at this. Realizing how ridiculous he was acting, Sherlock joined him. When the laughing ceased, the two men grew pensive and focused on consuming their drinks. Moreover, Sherlock's mind was focused on Molly and what was going to happen once she returned.

"Professor James Moriarty."

That got his attention. He looked over at John. "What?"

"Professor Moriarty. Was all that you winding up Mycroft or does this professor really exist?"

"He exists."

"Who is he?"

"Moriarty's older brother."

John made some kind of frustrated grunt. "Yes, I got that. How is it everyone knows Jim Moriarty, but no one knows about the professor?"

"Let me put it this way: Next to the professor, Jim Moriarty is sane, stupid, and nice. No one knows about the professor because he doesn't want to be known."

John blanched. "What _does_ he want?"

"I don't know, but whatever it is has in some way to do with me. He's been fascinated for quite a while."

"How do you know that?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Why else would Jim deliberately seek me out time and again, be so engrossed? Yes, the challenge of my intellect is second to none and, yes, he was bored and more than a little suicidal. But why seek me out specifically? As I would be the key to undoing his plans, it would be wiser to just avoid me altogether." He looked down at his tea, watching the way the dregs swirled about as he swished the remaining liquid in his cup.

"Why?"

"Simple. He worshipped his brother; a man who taught him everything he knew, whose approval he never received, and someone who obviously put me on some type of pedestal of brilliance. As Jim wished to be the one on the pedestal, he was intent on taking out the competition—so to speak." He finished off his tea and returned the cup to its saucer with a muffled _chink_.

"How on earth do you know all of this?"

"The same way I know about everything else. I collect the clues and use them to reach a logical deduction." He gripped the arms of his chair, propelling himself to his feet so he could walk around. All this talking was giving him a headache. "Honestly, how long have you known me that you're unaware of my process?"

Thankfully, John remained mute while Sherlock paced the distance from his chair to the couch. Seeing the couch reminded him of Molly, which reminded him of the issues still standing between them. _Why do I care?_ He knew the answer. She was his friend. It is common to care for friends. _But this isn't like John or Mary or Lestrade. I feel … different. More. _Worse, he didn't like it. These different feelings left his stomach in an uncomfortable knot that promised to never leave. Worse, they proved to be a never ending distraction from those things on which he should be concentrating.

_I should tell her to leave._

The second those thoughts flitted across his brain, panic set in. Her leaving was the last thing he wanted.

_What is wrong with me? Am I finally losing my wits? Is that it?_ Yes, maybe this wasn't about Molly at all. Maybe this was some kind of mental breakdown he was having. It wasn't the first time he'd felt so … unbalanced. The last time, he'd diagnosed himself and sought a roommate to cure the affliction. John had proved just the thing to keep him composed yet stimulated and as close to normal as he could ever reasonably expect to be. That the doctor shared an interest in solving mysteries and chasing criminals had been an invaluable—if sometimes exasperating —addition and a way for him to become better focused in his work. Sherlock had never thought to have a partner, but now that he had one, he couldn't imagine going back to being alone.

_Alone. I don't do well alone. Is that why I don't want Molly to leave so badly?_ It made sense. He'd tried to construct a new routine once John left the flat and his bachelorhood behind, but it had been difficult. Boredom seemed to set in far earlier than it ever had before, maddening Sherlock and driving him to find greater and more interesting ways to rid himself of it. Dealing with Janine had been a challenge at first. He'd flirted his way into information before, after all, but had never had to carry the role of lovesick sop so far before. There was a challenge in that, he'd decided. Besides, it might be nice to have someone about the flat again.

But, within a day or so, these notions had soured, replaced with a growing agitation and annoyance as Janine flitted about the place leaving her belongings everywhere, rearranging his kitchen cupboards, wearing his dirty shirts—_Why do women do that?_—and sleeping in his bed. Worst of all, his research had fallen by the wayside as she'd expressed a keen dislike of body parts in her presence and she had little to no understanding or appreciation of personal space. He had to be on constant alert, never knowing when he would be accosted or molested. Those last few days before he'd broken into Magnussen's office, he'd actually taken to staying out most evenings to avoid her completely—_Not that this stopped her from sleeping over._

A memory of the drug den John had found him in filtered in. Some small part of him could admit that the heroin that day hadn't just been about the case. It had been about tediousness and missing John and a slight insecurity as to whether or not he was still susceptible to the weakness of that particular drug. As much as his experience in the drug den had indeed helped with the Magnussen case, Sherlock knew he could never do that again. He abhorred being controlled by anything, and drugs—if one took them long enough—controlled everything. Dependency. That's what it was. Worse still, from the looks on both John's and Molly's faces that day, he knew there would only be so many second chances they gave him. He'd been secretly thrilled to have Molly strike him and John yell at him. After all, it was undeniable proof they still cared.

He ground his teeth. _Dependency. Caring. Sentiment._ Was his dependency on Molly's and John's affections just as bad as the heroin? Mycroft often said sentiment was a defect. Sherlock had always assumed that meant in terms of his work, but what if that wasn't all? What if it meant dependency as well?

_That's it_, he decided. _Molly has to go. Immediately._

"So when does Molly leave?"

That broke through Sherlock's reverie. He whirled on John. "Pardon?"

"If Jim Moriarty is truly dead and it's only the professor who is out there, it stands to reason Molly shouldn't have to stay with you any longer. She can go back to her normal life."

"Go back?" Sherlock repeated. "_Normal_?"

"Yes, Sherlock. Even you have to admit that living with you is anything but normal."

Mortification threatened, but the consulting detective kept it at bay. "Well, you're no prize to live with either." He turned again and resumed pacing.

"My point is that she isn't in danger any longer."

"Wrong!"

John frowned. "How so?"

"As the professor is ten times the criminal mastermind his brother was, it stands to reason that he would be more than aware of the information concerning my life as well as those of importance to me as Jim Moriarty was."

"But if she is here, doesn't that put her in greater danger? As you said to Mycroft, the professor will seek you out when he is ready."

"I didn't say he would just show up in my lounge unannounced."

"You think he'll make an appointment first?"

"I think he'll make his presence known without showing his face. He's gone to quite a lot of trouble to keep it hidden from me this long. There has to be a reason for that. This reason will be what keeps him from coming here. Therefore, there isn't a place in all of London where Molly would be safer."

"He doesn't have to come here himself to cause trouble. He could send people, you know."

"He could also send people to any flat Molly would get. How will she be any safer there?" Sherlock turned on heel to stare at his friend.

John's silence indicated Sherlock had won the argument. Sherlock smirked, happy at this deduction. However, as other details started making themselves known, he realized he might be the one wrong. First, there was John's eyes, which were widened into what could only be surprise. That by itself proved nothing as the doctor could also be surprised he'd so thoroughly lost the debate. But when one added John's growing paleness as well as the fact that he couldn't seem to stop staring over Sherlock's shoulder towards the door, there was only one deduction to be had.

Someone was standing behind him. Someone John was mortified to have had overhear them.

One small sniff was all it took to identify who it was. The intoxicating bouquet of lavender mixed with sandalwood and a hint of citrus barely masking the odor of formaldehyde was unmistakable. His heart began racing in his chest. Yes, he knew who it was alright.

_Molly._


	19. The Other Woman

**Chapter Nineteen: The Other Woman**

Molly Hooper was a short, frail female. Her voice was unsure and weak, her brown eyes were as timid as a milk cow, and her clothing was usually something akin to what a primary school child would choose to wear. On her best day, she could hardly harm a fly.

Yet, the second he spotted the pathologist occupying his doorway, Sherlock Holmes felt like a bug pinned to a corkboard.

A torrent of emotions washed over him. The wave was so steep and heavy he could barely keep his head above water. Relief, amazement, happiness, fear, anger, and confusion battled for dominance. He watched her, not daring to move or speak. What was she thinking? Was she still angry over this morning? What was she thinking now? How much had she overheard? Would she want to leave? Should he want her to leave? What was she thinking _now_? Why did the thought of her leaving always leave him with a lurch of panic? Why was he rethinking this? Why couldn't he seem to make a decision and stick to it where she was concerned?

_Why? Why? Why?_

"Well," John said, scrambling to his feet. "I'll just leave you two to it." He didn't wait for a reply before gathering his belongings and making for the door like demon dogs from Hell were nipping at his heels.

_Coward._ Sherlock watched his friend go, trying to ignore the manic instinct that made him want to follow. _No, I have this. I can handle it. I can always handle Molly. In fact, her malleability in my hands is one of the best things about her. _These thoughts brought with them the shocking mental image of his hands roving over her skin.

_Where the hell did that come from?_

He closed his eyes briefly, regaining control of himself. _This is ridiculous._ _I've already decided what to do. Molly should leave. No, Molly _must_ leave._ It didn't matter what Molly said now or the fact that he'd only moments before been arguing for her to stay. She had to go. Anywhere but here. He didn't know where all these strange feelings were coming from or what they meant, but he knew for sure the root cause of them beginning.

Molly. And, with every hour she remained, he felt himself dancing closer and closer to the edge of something acutely dangerous. _No_, he hastily affirmed. _I must not lose my sanity. She must go._ He opened his eyes.

"Molly, I want—"

"Sherlock, I need—"

They both stopped as soon as they'd begun. Molly gave him a wry smile, the one she used when she was embarrassed. A place in his chest softened inexplicably at that. _What does she have to be ashamed about_? There was a long silence as each waited for the other to speak.

Finally, when Sherlock could stand it no longer, he said, "What do you _need_?"

"What do you _want_?" Molly said at the same time.

The silence engulfed them again until Molly suddenly took two steps into the room. Reflexively, Sherlock backed up. She frowned at him in concern.

Sherlock looked away, chagrin heating his cheeks. In a feeble attempt to cover it, he dashed to his chair and claimed it, knowing she would take her customary seat on the sofa, a respectable and calm-inducing distance away.

Honestly, in this moment, he'd never been happier about her bizarre predilection to avoid the chair she called "John's."

Molly didn't disappoint. She claimed a space on the sofa, those brown eyes of hers never leaving him. Her expression was tempered with concern, as if she were worried he might do himself harm. Sherlock racked his brain, trying to come up with a plausible explanation as to why this might be as well as a plan on how to get her out of here without destroying their friendship.

He closed his eyes, attempting to concentrate. Yes, Molly was important. Her friendship was invaluable. Not only for his continued access to the morgue as well as her lab, but also because she'd proven herself to be the person he could talk to when he couldn't talk to John. Sometimes, Molly was the person he could talk to even if he could talk to John. She had a way of accepting things John could not.

_She's my friend. That won't going away, no matter where Molly resides._

His concentration strengthened. Sherlock took a deep breath. That brought with it the scent of her. No other woman could ever smell like her. No perfume ever produced could hope to mimic the soothing fusion of fragrances that was Molly Hooper. The complex floral and citrus undertones of washing up soap and hand lotion spiced with harsh chemicals from the lab where she spent so much time, all mixed together with a dollop of this warm, earthy element that was distinctively her—made stronger today by her hair and clothing being slightly dampened by the rain. The scent never failed to comfort him, even when he didn't particularly want to be comforted. _Odd. _

He snapped his eyes open to find her still watching him. His mouth felt inexplicably parched. _What is wrong with me?_ He licked at his dry lips, trying to alleviate the problem, and coughed in a feeble attempt to maintain his usual air of detachment. Her continued silence and staring—_ogling really_—made this difficult to accomplish.

"Are you going to say anything?" he demanded.

She folded her hands in her lap, looking as prim as a schoolteacher. "Perhaps it would be best if you went first. You seemed to be in a hurry to tell me something before."

He paused, considering this a nanosecond before he blurted out, "I suppose you want an apology for this morning."

"No," she softly replied.

"No?"

"No."

That was all she said, as if it were enough of an explanation for anyone. He stared at her in expectation. She remained mute and stared back. He raised an eyebrow in intimidation. Her mouth quirked as though she found his actions to be more charming than daunting. He exhaled in frustration.

Females, as a rule, were an enigma to him. He'd always considered them to be a separate species from males. Men, he understood. Men made sense. They were simple creatures ruled by simple and finite policies. Females, however, were peculiar, unpredictable, and dangerous. Ruled by sentiment, they were fickle, calculating, lacked common sense, and wholly untrustworthy. All reasons Sherlock had long gone out of his way to eschew them.

_The_ Woman had more than proven his long-held theory correct. She'd used every weapon in her sexual arsenal in her quest to "find out what he liked." He knew what that meant, more so than even Mycroft or John did. Finding what he liked meant she could possess him, control him. He'd even been oddly tempted to let her try, to see if he could withstand her considerable prowess. She'd been so stimulating, such a test to his intellect and skills. She kept him constantly on his toes, promising an engaging world where the threat of boredom was a distant memory. She was everything he'd ever suspected of women and so much more, all wrapped in an intriguing package that just begged to be opened.

That she'd bested him had merely whetted his appetite for more. The biggest challenge of all loomed between them every time they met: Could he withstand her manipulations long enough to outwit her, to strip her bare of her shroud of lies and artifice to find the real woman underneath? Was there even a real woman underneath anymore or merely more lies?

Yes, it had been a rare and enticing contest. One he'd wisely decided to avoid. After all, she had managed to infiltrate his carefully constructed walls and awaken something inside of himself he didn't like. He'd been beguiled, but like the famed Odysseus turning away from the lotus eaters for fear of losing his wits, Sherlock had kept her at bay. In the end, The Woman had proven herself to be as treacherous and disloyal as the rest of her sex. Sherlock had outwitted her, the irony not lost on him that it was sentiment—something she'd been trying to use to bring about his downfall—that had been her undoing.

He'd saved her life, of course. But that was only because he couldn't stand to see someone with her resourcefulness and acumen destroyed and because he'd wanted to see if he was up to the challenge of doing it without his brother finding out. That night, The Woman had repaid his kindness by trying one last time to lure him to her bed, but he'd gotten away before lust could induce him to be foolish.

Yes, it was possible for him to feel sexual desire. He knew John and all the rest would be shocked to know that, but it was true. He was a human, wasn't he? But observing the many, many times desire had brought about the downfall of his species was enough to make him bury those feelings as deep within himself as possible. It had worked amazingly well. It wasn't until The Woman that something he'd considered nearly dead had been resurrected. This time, however, it refused to remain buried. He hated it. It was like a once-locked door that now refused to close, an albatross around his neck.

Thankfully, that particular albatross was out of his life and, the last time he checked, residing in America—some place called New Jersey. But as much as she was out of his life, The Woman was never truly out of his mind. Sometimes he thought of her because she was a real reminder of the faithlessness of females and how he was more susceptible to them as he'd once believed himself to be. More often than that, he thought of her because she was a woman who'd proven herself his equal—something he'd never believed possible. This, of course, often begged the question: If Irene Adler was his equal and could be so fallible as to allow sentiment to rule her better judgement as well as selfish and ignorant to the idea that the needs of the common good should sometimes override one's own, what did that make him?

_Probably a question best left unanswered._

Moreover, as much as The Woman had stimulated him on many levels, she didn't truly understand him. No one really did—except possibly John and sometimes Mycroft—but there was something about Irene's inability to fully grasp the building blocks that created him that had left a bitter taste in his mouth and made his respect for her wane ever so slightly.

_Perhaps, that is the true reason you were able to walk away from her that night. _

"Sherlock?"

Breaking from his reverie, his eyes found Molly. He said nothing, merely looked at her. Molly was vastly different from The Woman. She always had been. Unlike the rest of her gender, she was honest, forthright, and as meek as a kitten. On more than one occasion, he'd almost forgotten she was female. He liked it better then. Things were more comfortable somehow and less … awkward. In fact, it was the moments when Molly made it blatantly impossible for him to forget she was a woman that he found himself almost hating her.

The memory of that Christmas party in this very flat long ago and the terrible things he said to her made him close his eyes. If he mentally put the pathologist side by side with The Woman, it was a laughable combination. There was simply no way to compare them. If Irene was a potent wine of extraordinary vintage, Molly was milk. If Irene was Tolstoy, Molly was that ridiculous zombie book she wouldn't stop reading. If Irene was a terrifying thunderstorm whipping through the night, Molly was an ordinary, overcast day.

But the sharp, defined "No" Molly had uttered moments ago had him rethinking these deductions. Then again, ever since she had the audacity to declare that she didn't count—and actually believe that—to him in the lab on an evening so long ago, everything he'd ever thought about Molly Hooper had changed. At first, he'd thought it was because he'd missed something important about her character—he was always missing something—but the longer he got to know her, the more he wasn't sure about that. Molly was always Molly. He was beginning to suspect that it wasn't anything about her that had changed, merely his ability to discern her had changed.

"Sherlock, are you all right?"

He opened his eyes, almost surprised to find her there. "Pardon?"

"You've been quiet for a long time. Do you mind if I have a go at talking now?"

He blinked, feeling his cheeks heating again in embarrassment. This confused him. He routinely lost himself in thought in the middle of conversations, but this was the first time that trait had ever been cause for embarrassment.

"Y-y-yes. I mean, no," he said, fisting his hands in his lap in frustration. "Go ahead." _What's wrong with me?_

"I want to apologize."

"What?"

He stared at her, expecting her to duck her head or look away as she always did. She kept his gaze as she had before, adding a smile as if to make him comfortable.

That was unnerving. Mostly because it was working. He _did_ feel more comfortable.

"I want to apologize," she repeated.

"For what?" he skimmed through the memory of this morning, trying to figure out what she might have done which could be perceived to cause offense, but came back empty.

She glanced down at her hands, clenched together now. "I know you don't love me, that you'll never love me—"

"Molly—" He had no idea where she was going with this. He only knew the panic flooding his stomach made him intervene. It took all he had to remain seated.

Her eyes darted to his as she held up a hand to stop his speech. "Let me finish."

He narrowed his gaze, but gave her a nod to continue. The panic seemed to have doubled in the last second, but he still forced himself to settle back against his chair as if he didn't have a care in the world.

She took a deep breath. Released it. "I understand now."

"You understand what?"

"You."

Sherlock couldn't have looked away from Molly if he'd tried. Inexplicably, with every word she uttered, the panic within him began to recede in favor of confusion, excitement and a strange bit of anticipation. No one fully understood him. It was something he had accepted a long time ago. _What does she mean? How can she—?_

"I think I've somehow always known this about you, but it wasn't until I was explaining it to someone else that I realized the truth of it."

"The truth of what?"

"I thought that you wouldn't love me because I wasn't good enough, pretty enough, or smart enough. I mean, I'm not Janine or that woman you liked so much. You know, the one with the racy website whose mobile you were x-raying that one time."

"Molly—"

The halting hand rose again. "I'm important. You trust me. I count. I know all that. I accept it." She looked down again, her teeth capturing the edge of her lip. "In fact, it's something that makes me proud because I know how few people in the world you feel that way about." She inhaled, held the breath, and then blew it out in a quick rush. "I told myself your friendship was enough for me, that I would make my peace with my feelings for you."

Her gaze raised again, hitting him square on until he felt again like a bug pinned to a corkboard.

"But I know now that isn't what I've been doing. If anything, I've been punishing you for not loving me and for not living up to what I wanted you to be. That's not fair of me. You are who you are, and there's nothing wrong with that. I'm sorry. I hope you will forgive me. My only excuse is that I didn't realize until today. Do you know what I realized?"

His mouth felt so dry, he was sure he couldn't speak. So, Sherlock shook his head instead.

"It's not that you won't love me; it's that you can't."

"What?" he squawked.

"It's not about me at all. You can't love anyone—not like that."

"I can't?"

"No. It would be your downfall. It would ruin you. You even tried to have a romantic relationship with that Janine woman and look how badly that turned out. All those emotions already running rampant in that mind of yours couldn't handle being in love, too. Plus, it would take you away from the one thing you were put on this earth to do: Solve the mysteries no one else could ever hope to solve. You save lives, Sherlock. You bring hope to the hopeless and answers to those filled with questions. Falling in love is the stuff of mortals; your work is the stuff of gods." She smiled at him.

"So," she continued, getting to her feet, "I owe you an apology. I'm sorry for not having figured this all out sooner. I'm afraid I'll never catch on to things quite as fast as you. I'm sorry for having forced myself on you when it was clear you didn't want me. You've had the patience of saint for putting up with me."

"You never forced yourself—"

"I did. Again and again. I asked you out even though I knew you weren't interested. I tried to make you jealous by dating a work colleague—only to end up bringing a criminal mastermind into your presence. I put you in uncomfortable situations like the time I dressed up like a tart and came to your Christmas party hoping you would notice me. I forced you to let me live here. I told you it was because I wanted to help you take down Jim and because I didn't want to give up living my life. But the truth was that I wanted you and I'd hoped that by being so close to you day after day, you'd be forced to get to know the real me and, through that, you might start to want me back."

He'd never been so confused in his life. "I _do_ know the real you." _I like the real you._ He held that last part back, unsure what it would mean to her or to him or to this situation.

A tear trickled down her cheek at that and she looked away, as if she couldn't bear the sight of him for one second longer. "I know." _And it didn't make one bit of difference._

She didn't say it, but he still heard her just the same. Something switched on in his brain, something he didn't fully understand yet. But it was good, like being able to see after years of believing himself to be blind.

"I guess what I'm trying to say—very inarticulately," she said with a small laugh that didn't hold an ounce of mirth, "is that I understand you now. You're not heartless. You are one of the most caring people I know. You care about the greater good, and that's how it should be. You see the big picture while the rest of us get mired in the details. Yes, you're crass at times and you have a propensity for rushing headlong into disaster without thinking about the feelings of those who might worry about you, but if you didn't rush in, someone would get hurt, lives would be destroyed. You do the work of angels, Sherlock Holmes, and, as much as I might wish otherwise, I'll never be an angel."

That reminded him of his rooftop discussion with Moriarty. The panic that had been building within him rose to dangerous levels. Sherlock had to stop her talking. He stepped towards her, trying to close the distance before she finished this. "Molly—"

She backed up, holding up a hand again. This didn't make him stop this time. Her next sentence, however, did.

"I'm in love with you."

He felt like someone had shot him in the chest again. Sherlock staggered back. He'd known this before, of course. But to have her say it.

Now.

Out loud.

To his face.

He didn't know what he was supposed to do, how he could stop what instinct told him must come next.

"Part of me will always love you, Sherlock. But I think it's best for everyone if from now on I try very hard not to anymore."

Sherlock's heart, which had been beating so rapidly, faltered. The knot that had claimed residence these last few weeks in his stomach all this time grew painfully tight.

"And that starts with me moving out of here."

"What?"

"You were right. I don't belong here. I'm only getting in the way. I'm distracting you from finding Jim Moriarty. I should have gone with Mycroft when you first asked me to. You were only thinking of my safety. But I wanted to show you I could be more than you thought I was." She shook her head, more tears falling. "I won't get in your way anymore. I'll call Mycroft. I'll go with him. The time away will be good. It'll allow me to—"

"Shut up." He closed the space between them, taking her by the shoulders.

She frowned, looking up at him in confusion. Her wet cheeks and the unshed tears in her eyes somehow made her beautiful. He'd never thought Molly to be beautiful, but now he couldn't manage to think of any other word that could better describe her. She was beautiful. He didn't stop to ponder the why of it or the reasons behind what he was doing or the ramifications of everything. He only knew Molly was leaving his life for good, and he was going to do whatever it took to stop her.

"Sherlock, I don't understand—"

"Neither do I," he said, pulling her into his arms.

Then, before another word could be uttered by anyone, Sherlock Holmes kissed Molly Hooper.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: You know, I can actually hear the screaming even as I am writing this. Weird. In any case, more soon. Much appreciation and love until then!**


	20. There's The Rub

**Chapter Twenty: There's the Rub.**

Kissing Sherlock was an exercise in disappointment and frustration. Being kissed by Sherlock, however, was an explosion of passion and manic energy. So manic in fact, that it didn't seem like he was simply kissing her, he was desperately consuming her like a roaring blaze on dry kindling. It was all Molly could do to hang on.

It was also extremely difficult to remember all the reasons this was a bad idea.

He was so tall, but that didn't stop him from cupping her face with both hands and leaning down into her as he kissed her. His lips surged hard against hers, once, twice. She returned the favor. How could she not? Then, he angled his head, opened his mouth, and swooped in and the kiss transformed into something so hot, so vehement, so blistering that she forgot who she was for a moment.

The next thing she was aware of was the sound of a door slamming and the feel of her back bring pressed against a hard surface. Since Sherlock's body was still pressed against her front, she couldn't find it within herself to mind. Her hands had snaked their way up his chest—So _lovely_—past his shoulders—_Who knew they were so wide?_—around his neck—_I could spend a month there just exploring_—and into the mass of dark curls clustered at the nape of his neck—_Oh dear Jesus_.

She pulled him in, kissed him back as fervently as he was kissing her. It was madness. That's what this was. All of it. Such sweet madness that she never wanted it to end. But it would end. All too soon. And the second it did, Molly knew there would be so much to ask, so many answers she didn't want to deal with. All this and more nagged at the back of her mind, but they were easily pushed aside when he wrapped his arms around her waist, jerking her closer to him even as his mouth continued to take hers.

If she were one to believe in past lives, she could have easily believed Sherlock to have once been a pirate. He certainly kissed like one. He plundered, pillaged, and looted her mouth until she felt like she had nothing else left. Still, he demanded more, as if he could never get enough. Never one to deny him, Molly gave him more and more and more until the thoughts and worries and questions overtook even the desperate fury of his kiss.

She finally broke away from him, tilting her head back against the wood of the door even as her lungs fought to refill themselves. Sherlock inclined forward automatically, intent on recapturing her lips, but she moved her head to the side. His face fell into the crook of her shoulder, seemingly exhausted.

He panted, much the same as she was. Molly realized her hand was still lost in his hair, but she couldn't find the will to remove it. Instead, she held him to her, petting the back of his neck in soothing strokes like he was a child in need of comfort. He shuddered against her. Molly used her free hand to hold him closer.

They stayed that way for the longest time. At last, when their breathing quieted and they both appeared to have come back to themselves, Sherlock pulled back. She hated how much the simple act of him doing that hurt her, but she'd known it was coming. It had to come. She let him go, but he didn't go far, no more than a few steps away.

His cheeks were ruddy and his hair was delightfully tousled, like he'd spent time in a wind tunnel. His lips were swollen and the pupils of his eyes were so dilated that she would have thought him under the influence of drugs if she hadn't known better. In fact, he looked like he'd been thoroughly debauched. Molly couldn't help the little smile that came to her at that thought. _I did that. Me. Little Molly Hooper._ She wanted to kiss him again, to tear the clothes from his body and debauch him fully.

But she wouldn't. She couldn't. Sherlock Holmes was a man who had a motive for every action. There was a reason he had kissed her, a reason she was afraid to uncover. Still, as fearful as she was, she had to know—even if it would break what was left of her heart.

"Why?" she asked.

He looked away. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

He shook his head with the aplomb of a boy caught with a toy that wasn't his.

"Sherlock—"

"I don't want you to leave."

"So you kissed me?"

His gaze shot back to her at that. He gave a short, decisive nod.

Molly's shoulders sagged in defeat. Just as she'd feared. "I had hoped we were past this."

"Past what?"

"You trying to manipulate me by using my feelings for you against me."

He frowned. "That's not what I was doing."

"Isn't it? Sherlock, you know I'm in love with you. I'm trying to do the right thing here. I'm trying to set you free of the troublesome burden of dealing with me and you—"

"You're no burden, Molly. You've never been a burden to me. If anything, you've always been a help. More help than you can ever fully comprehend."

His tone was like a caress, one she wanted to melt into. She stiffened, hating how susceptible she was to him. "If this is about access to the lab or the morgue, I can talk to Mike Stamford. Whether I'm there or not, they will let you in."

Surprise softened his features. "I don't care about that."

"Then why did you kiss me?"

He looked away once more, as if he were racking his brain for the answer. Finally, he glanced back and said, "You were leaving, and I … had to stop you."

"That doesn't make sense."

He shrugged, looking sheepish. "I know."

An insane thought popped in her mind. Insane, true, but it did explain a lot of things. "Are you in love with me? Is that why you didn't want me to leave?"

"No." His answer was swift and sure.

Molly closed her eyes, rolling her head to the side because his admission hurt more than it should have considering everything she knew about him. Hadn't she just got through explaining why he couldn't love anyone? _Why would you think that had changed in the last three seconds?_

"I would very much like to have sex with you, though."

Her eyes popped open at that. Her jaw fell slack as she stared at him. Her brain shorted out until she couldn't have produced a response if she wanted to.

"Yes," he said. "shocked me, too. It also complicates things in a way I don't like." He shrugged again. "Doesn't make it any less true though."

Silence swallowed up everything between them for a long time. Molly spent the time trying to absorb what he'd just said. It was too much. At last, Sherlock straightened to every inch of his impressive height, tucking his hands behind his back as he began to pace in front of her. "I have a proposal, Molly."

She blinked. That was all she was capable of at the moment.

He made it to one end of the room, flipped about, and marched towards the other.

"You weren't wrong about me, but you weren't altogether right either. I don't love, not like that. It would be a dangerous proposition for me—not to mention the unfortunate soul I elected to love."

"How was I wrong?"

"You said I can't love. That implies I am incapable of the feeling. That isn't true. I'm quite capable of it—much to Mycoft's eternal dismay."

"I don't understand."

He sighed and ceased pacing. "When I was a young boy home from school for the summer, I had a dog I named Redbeard. He just appeared one day, ragged and in need of a home. Mycroft took an instant dislike to him since his fur was matted and it looked like he hadn't had a good meal in a long while. In any case, it was the first time I'd shown an interest in something a normal child might like, so my mother insisted on letting me keep him." He shook his head. "Mummy was always worrying about her boys not fitting in with the other children.

"In any case, I spent a wondrous summer with Redbeard. He was my constant companion, the one I could confide in without worry of ridicule or judgement. And he returned the love I gave him tenfold."

"Then what?"

"Then, when it was time to return to school, I missed him terribly. I'd never been one for writing letters home to my parents. But when I had Redbeard, it was different. I wrote all the time, wondering how he was, begging for news and pictures. It went on like that for a few years. Mycroft said I was quite obsessed." Sherlock scoffed. "But what did he know about it? How could he possibly understand?"

Molly stayed quiet, feeling sadness for the boy Sherlock who had to deal with so much.

"One year after the school term had ended, I rushed home to see Redbeard, but he wasn't there."

"Did he run away?"

"No, I was told he went to live on a farm. He'd been getting on in years. My father said that frolicking on rolling hills and chasing chickens was the perfect way for Redbeard to spend the last years of his life. I was, of course, upset. But as my father convinced me this was best for Redbeard, how could I argue?"

His mouth twisted into a scornful sneer. "A month went by before Mycroft told me the truth. He actually found the situation humorous, that I'd bought the whole story, that I'd allowed sound logic to be overridden by sentiment."

Molly felt tears well in her eyes, her heart broken for the little boy he'd been. She'd never particularly liked or disliked Mycroft. Honestly, she'd always been a trifle intimidated by him. She long ago reasoned that was an air the elder Mr. Holmes purposefully cultivated to keep people at bay. Now, she didn't care. She hated him. Intimidating or not, if he were here, she would have told him off.

"Redbeard had been old when he showed up on our doorstep. As the years went by, his health deteriorated. Getting around was painful for him. Blinded by my feelings for him, I didn't see it." His eyes took on a faraway look. "Honestly, it wouldn't have mattered if I had. I would have still wanted him alive. I would have kept him to the very end even if I had to carry him everywhere myself. My parents knew that. So, they waited until I went back to school after Christmas holidays and had him put to sleep."

The betrayals from his family were varied and many. The pain of the past was still evident. Molly could see all of that plainly on Sherlock's face for a moment before everything disappeared, replaced by his usual mask of detachment.

"It was a good lesson for me; one I've never forgotten."

"Is that why Mycroft said sentiment was a defect found in the losing side?"

"How did you—"

"I overheard you both talking one time at the morgue."

"Yes," he said. "Emotion gets in the way of things. Love is the worst offender when it comes to this. Love is blind and all that." He resumed his pacing. "In my line of work, I can't afford to be blind. As you say, I see what others cannot." He stopped to look at her. "But I am human, Molly. More human sometimes than I would like to admit. I have emotions—sometimes too many to deal with. You were right about that. I decided long ago to suppress them and, on the whole, I have been successful in this endeavor. It makes me a better detective."

"It also makes you alone."

He sighed, a look of regret on his face. "Ah, there's the rub." He reached up, wiping his large hand over his face. "I'm not Mycroft. I don't do well on my own. It's why I got John."

Molly bit back a smile. The way he talked, it was like he'd pick John up at the shops like he was a pint of milk. _Only Sherlock Holmes._

"Strangely enough, John helped me become more focused and, overall, a better detective. Likewise, I provided a service to him by allowing him to take part in my adventures. It was an arrangement that worked well for both of us. But then …" He trailed off, a frown marring his handsome features.

"You had to leave London for two years because of Jim?"

He looked startled. "No, then John got married."

Molly was confused. Hadn't he been lonely during those two years? He must have. But from the way he was talking, it seemed as though John deciding to move ahead with his life was the bigger sin to Sherlock.

He resumed pacing. "In any case, he moved in with Mary and I once again found myself alone."

"And so you started dating Janine to deal with your loneliness."

He waved his hand absentmindedly. "No, of course not. That was for a case."

"What?"

"Janine was Charles Augustus Magnussen's personal assistant. Dating her was the easiest way to get to him."

"I don't understand."

He sighed, as if he were the most put-upon man in the U.K. "Sit down. I'll explain."

And once she resumed her position on the sofa, he did, detailing everything from how he'd been approached by a high profile client who was being blackmailed by Magnussen to Sherlock shooting the newspaper magnet dead at his own home, his taking the mission work from his brother, and his last-minute change of direction once Jim popped back up. She noticed that he tread lightly over certain sections—especially the part where he'd been shot breaking into Magnussen's office—not mentioning who had actually done the shooting. _He's not lying. _She was sure of it. But he wasn't telling her the entire truth either._ Why? To protect someone? Who?_

When he was done recounting, Sherlock stopped pacing, his eyebrows raised. "Now do you understand?"

Molly's mind swam with this infusion of knowledge. On one hand, it explained so much. On the other, it left her with more questions. She'd been told a few things by John and Mary, of course, but all of these new details … Still, one thing for sure was certain.

"The only thing I understand is that, as much as I find you dating a woman strictly for a case to be morally repugnant, I stand firmly by my initial assessment that you dated Janine due to loneliness."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "I killed a man for a case. Is it so farfetched that I might romantically ensnare a woman for the same cause? I am, as you well know, guilty of using your feelings for me to manipulate you into giving me body parts and unfettered access to St. Bart's. I have done so from the very beginning of our acquaintance."

"Not possible. You weren't even aware I had real feelings for you until that mortifying Christmas party. At best, you picked up on my attraction to you at the very beginning of our acquaintance. Then, you flirted with me to get what you wanted. That's not what you did to Janine."

"The point is I did it for the case."

"You killed Magnussen because it was the only thing you could do to stop him. He was a plague that needed to be eradicated."

A strange lightness transformed Sherlock's expression, as if he were impressed by her figuring that out. She ignored it as she continued, "However, you dated Janine because you genuinely liked her and were lonely. You forget, Sherlock, I saw you two at John's wedding. You hit it off."

His head cocked sideways. "Why were you watching us? Jealous?"

"Yes." There was no sense lying. Not to Sherlock. Not now.

"But you were with Tom. As I remember it, you couldn't keep your mouth off him all day and most of the evening."

"Why were you watching us?" she countered, unable to help herself. "Jealous?"

He frowned disapprovingly at her. "We've already been over that."

She shrugged. "My point is that I'm not nearly as brilliant as you are, and I can come up with five other ways off the top of my head for you to get close to Magnussen without having to involve Janine." She crossed her arms of her chest and settled back against the sofa. "I am therefore forced to deduce that you went out with Janine because you were lonely. I further deduce that this is also the reason you decided to try heroin again."

Molly would have laughed at how flustered he suddenly was if she hadn't been so angry. _Really? Doing drugs because of loneliness? How stupid could one genius be? _She wanted to slap him all over again. At the same time, she wanted to take him in her arms and pet him once more.

He opened his mouth to argue, but she beat him to the punch. "I don't want to debate your drug use yet another time. All you need to know about that is I won't tolerate it. Do it again and I will leave and never speak to you again—no matter what ridiculous ruse you might employ to try to make me stay. Got it?"

Sherlock nodded, watching her intently.

"Good," she said.

There was a pregnant pause between them before he cleared his throat and said, "I will admit that I was fond of Janine. She had her own brand of humor that was, at times, entertaining and when she wasn't being completely self-absorbed, using me as a chair, leaving her underclothing lying around the flat or rearranging my cabinets, she did have intriguing ideas about the world. I will also admit that I chose her not only because she was Magnussen's assistant, but also because I thought I would be able to tolerate her company for the interim of the case. I will even admit that I thought it was an amusing turn that she put all that rubbish about me in the papers. She made some money and is happily ensconced in a cottage in Sussex Downs. I wish her well, but have no further interest in her. I would even say I more than got my comeuppance for any damage I might have done to her. Is that enough of a compromise for you?"

Molly nodded.

"Good," he said, his hands swinging back behind him. "Then I believe it's time we discussed another compromise."

"What are you talking about?"

"The proposal I mentioned earlier. Have you forgotten already?"

Molly inhaled, feeling prepared for anything. This was Sherlock. At this point, nothing he could say would surprise her. "No, I remember. What about it?"

"How would you feel about being in a relationship with me?"

_Nope_, Molly thought, _I was wrong._


	21. Shock And Ahh

**Chapter Twenty-One: Shock And Ahh**

There comes a time when a body simply cannot absorb any more shock. Then, it just hits and falls away like rain off a mac. This is where Molly found herself. She wondered idly if it was an indication that she was going mad. How else could one rationalize the fact that Sherlock Holmes, the man who didn't love or date unless there was a case involved, had just asked her to be his girlfriend?

_Yep_, she thought. _No doubts._ _I'm losing it._

"You have questions. Allow me to expound," Sherlock said, as if he'd heard her.

Mutely, Molly remained seated on the sofa. _Oh, this should be good._

Sherlock resumed his pacing like a professor giving a lecture. "We each have things the other desires. I want a live-in companion who understands the importance of my work, accepts my various eccentricities, and who doesn't mind being a sounding board from time to time. You want a life with the man you love. A relationship between us is the most rational conclusion, a modest transaction that should prove mutually beneficial to both parties."

"You're not serious."

He had the audacity to look affronted. "Of course I am."

"It's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

"It makes sense."

"How so? You don't love me, Sherlock. In fact, you just got through explaining in great detail how you'll never be in love with anyone. You might get the companion you want with this foolish arrangement, but how am I getting anything I want?"

In the blink of an eye, Sherlock knelt down in front of her. Reaching out, his large hands framed her face. He pulled her closer, staring deeply into her eyes. His low-pitched tone was as smooth as velvet. "You want me, don't you?"

Her heart raced. She fought to keep her breath. Her mind became fuzzy and unfocused by his close proximity and the intensity of his concentration on her. His hands were so warm against her cheeks. Molly wanted to sink into that warmth and never come out again.

"Don't you?" he tenderly prompted.

There were silver flecks in his eyes. She'd never noticed them before. _So beautiful. Why does everything about him have to be so achingly beautiful_?

"Don't you?"

"Yes."

"You can have me." He leaned in as if about to kiss her, his voice a bare whisper of sultry air against her lips. "Say yes, Molly."

"Y-y-y …"

"Say it _now_."

She never could say for sure what triggered it. Maybe it was the slight tremor of annoyance that had seeped into his voice. But like a flip switching in her brain, it suddenly became obvious what he was doing. "No," she snapped, angrily pushing him away. "Stop trying to manipulate me."

"Fine." He returned to his feet in one swift movement. "Let's try logic."

"Logic?" Molly repeated with a derisive snort. "Logic has no place in this foolhardy discussion."

"Why did you end your engagement with Tom?"

Molly frowned, startled and wary. "That's none of your business."

"You_ are_ my business, Molly. Have been for some time now. Answer the question."

She didn't respond, merely stared at him. He stood there watching her, stubbornly waiting.

_He knows I'm going to give in._ Molly hated that he was right. "You know why."

"Tell me anyway. Tell me why an intelligent woman like yourself who sought love, marriage, and children would turn away from a man willing to give her all those things and more."

It was at times like this that she hated Sherlock. Truly hated him. Molly glanced down at her hands in her lap. The empty place on her ring finger seemed particularly noticeable. She fisted her hand, wanting to hit something. She looked up at her tormentor. _Or someone_.

"Tell me, Molly."

She inhaled a harsh breath, deeply mortified. "Because he wasn't the man I wanted. At best, he was a shallow copy." A lone tear cut a path down her cheek.

The tear did nothing to deter Sherlock. "A shallow copy of whom?"

"You." She glared at him. "The longer I was with him, the more that became evident until one day I realized I couldn't lie to myself any longer. Neither could I be the kind of woman he wanted. So I ended it for both our sakes. I was a fool to think I could ever make it work." She swiped the tear away with her fist. "Happy?"

"No." He sighed loudly through his nose. "Molly, I'm selfish bastard. I always have been. I make no apologies for that. I'm also temperamental, childish, egocentric, and ruthless when it comes to getting what I want."

"You forgot inconsiderate, conceited, narcissistic, and vain," she retorted.

"Vain?" he asked, one dark brow rose in surprise.

_Is he truly so unaware? No, more like he thinks I am._ "I live here. I know how much hair product it takes for you to get that just-tousled-love-god style you go for. You also deliberately pop the collar on your coat because you know it makes you look dominating and irresistible."

One corner of his mouth quirked in a sheepish smile. "Just-tousled-love-god? Really?" He shook his head, quickly squelching the humor. "Yes, well. My point," he said, "is that you know all of these less than desirable qualities about me and more. You've known about them for years now."

"So?"

"So, you're in love with me anyway. You want me _anyway_. You had a kinder, milder, and decidedly more generic and boring version of me that could give you everything you wanted. But you rejected him because he _wasn't_ me."

She shrugged defensively. "I'll find someone else."

"What makes you think you won't do the same thing with the next idiot? You will. You want me, you love me. Clearly, that isn't going to change."

"If I'm away from you—"

"I was away from London for two years, Molly. It changed nothing in terms of your feelings. So why settle for a copy when you can have the real thing?"

She felt herself starting to cave. His logic was, after all, irrefutable. _No_, she thought. _This is about more than logic. I have to resist, turn this around in a way so that he could see how retched and doomed an idea it truly is. _"You don't want a romantic relationship, Sherlock. Not really. You just got through complaining about the last one you were in with Janine."

"That wasn't a relationship. Whether I did it because of the case or loneliness, I was merely playing a role. Janine had no clue who I really was. You do. What's more, you _like_ who I am. Believe me, that's a rare attribute. One I prefer in my companions."

"I'm not John. I never will be."

Something like fear flashed across his face, but it was too fast for her to tell for sure or to process what it meant. He gave a cynical laugh. "Don't tell me you, like the general populace, think he was my lover?"

"Don't be ridiculous. John's as straight as an arrow. And stop trying to get me off topic. You know what I mean when I say I'm not John. The same as I know why you asked me to go solving crimes with you that day after you came back."

"That was to show my appreciation for you helping me."

"It was also so you could try out a new work partner because John wasn't speaking to you at the time, you missed him terribly, and you weren't entirely sure he would ever come back."

The strange lightness returned to his expression, the one that told her she'd impressed him with her deduction. It was very close to the expression he'd been wearing after their kiss. She hated how giddy that made her.

Sherlock turned away, as if considering his words carefully. Then, turning back, he said, "I do miss John. It was foolish of me to think he wouldn't move on after I left London—especially considering he thought me dead. But he did move on. He found a good companion in Mary, and I genuinely wish him well. By asking you to stay here, Molly, I'm not expecting you to take his place. I've never wanted that."

"But if John weren't married to Mary—"

"He'd be married to someone else. It's what he was seeking anyway, a wife and family." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I can't tell you the number of times his romantic life got in the way of the work. Having Mary there allows for the better separation of those two things. She understands the importance of our work, and he, at least, seems more content." He smiled. "It's why I think a relationship between you and I would be best. You, like Mary, would understand. And, unlike John, you wouldn't feel the need to go anywhere. Ours would be a permanent arrangement."

_Surely he doesn't mean …_ The implications of his statement were too much. Molly swallowed hastily, saliva going down the wrong pipe. She coughed, feeling strangled as she fought to clear her airway.

Sherlock stepped forward, as if to offer assistance, but she waved him off. She was soon breathing normally again and wiped away the tears that had collected do to nearly choking.

He cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable as if he'd only now realized what she'd inferred from his offer. "I should probably clarify that by proposing this relationship, I don't mean it to include marriage, children, or any other such romantic tropes."

Molly shook her head in frustrated denial. "I don't even want to know what you mean by 'romantic tropes.' Sherlock, let's be frank. You're going to hate the hassle and inconvenience of having a girlfriend, and I'm going to end up disappointed and more brokenhearted than I already am. This _arrangement_ will end badly for _both _of us. Isn't it better to stop to things now?"

He continued, as if she hadn't spoken. "However, I am willing to guarantee you fidelity, respect, adventure, affection, scientific experimentation, and a remarkable, two-bedroom flat with a live-in Mrs. Hudson. Who else can offer you that?"

Molly couldn't help it. She had to ask. "Affection? What does that entail precisely?"

Sherlock blushed and cleared his throat again. "Sex."

He looked boyish and vulnerable and oh, so cute. It was amazing because in all the years she'd known him, in all the times she'd thought him handsome or gorgeous or beautiful, she'd never ever thought of him as cute. Not Sherlock Holmes. But in this moment, he was. So much so that she wanted to take him in her arms again and kiss him and take his clothes off, and she could do all of that and more if she only said yes to—

_Nope. Bad idea. I'm not sure why it's a bad idea right this second, but it is._

He stepped closer, as if he could hear her thoughts. _Oh dear Lord, I'm going to say yes. _He took another step, and the smirk curling his mouth leaving her no doubt that he could all but smell victory within his grasp. Fear made her blurt out the first thing to come to her. Anything to get him to stop.

"You're a virgin."

It worked. Sherlock stopped. He frowned. He blinked rapidly. He frowned some more. His mouth opened, shut, and then opened again, but no sound came out.

Molly had always wanted to leave the great detective speechless, but not like this. It was almost funny. _Almost._ "Look, Sherlock, I appreciate the offer, but this isn't going to work."

"Because you believe me to be a virgin?"

"Well, no. I mean, that wouldn't really be a problem because I …" _Great, now I'm the one blushing. _

"Because you … what?" he prodded, his eyes narrowing at her as he studied her face.

"I mean, I could teach you … that—I mean, I … Oh, God. I don't know what I mean." She buried her head in her hands, wishing the ground would rise up to swallow her whole. Silence swallowed up everything in the room, making her feel worse. Finally, the sofa dipped down beside her as he settled himself there. He reached over to gently pry one hand away from her face.

"It's my understanding that in these situations, it's usually the virgin who's embarrassed."

She turned to look at him, dropping her other hand in her lap. "No situation is ever usual where you're concerned."

He thought for a bit and nodded. "This is true."

"Usual or not, this won't work, Sherlock. Me and you. It won't. No matter how much lust or logic you use to try to gain my agreement, it won't work."

He squeezed her hand, making her remember he was still holding it. "You say lust and logic won't work. How about we try the blunt truth?"

"And what is that?"

"Molly, I spent two years of my life dismantling Moriarty's web, two years where I suppressed every emotion I had and focused on nothing but the work. I did it because it had to be done, because it was the surest way to keep those I care for safe, and because it was fun. I completed the job, and I came home."

"Because you didn't have distractions. That is all I'll ever be to you."

He ignored her words. "I came home to find the people I'd been protecting had moved on without me. The world had moved on without me."

"They believed you were dead."

"Some knew otherwise." He stared hard at her when he said it. "It was quite a shock to me how easily people could move on, how quickly I could become irrelevant—"

"You were never irrelevant."

"—and I realized my life had become a shallow, cold, and frankly lonely existence. It was fine when I was taking down Moriarty because I always knew what I was coming back to. But to be alone in London …" His eyes darted downward, like he was ashamed. "I don't do well alone. I just … don't. I've tried to convince myself otherwise, but when you were leaving tonight, I realized …"

Whatever this was, it wasn't a manipulation. She knew it. He was telling the truth, and it was costing him dearly. It almost scared her to see him like this. "Sherlock, I …" She broke off, unsure of what to say. He was her Sherlock now, but so much more … vulnerable. Yes, that's what he was. Like one wrong word for her could irrevocably break him. _No, not me. I'll never have that kind of power over him._ "Don't you understand? I can't be what you—"

Without warning, his gaze darted up to catch hers. "You saved my life, Molly."

"I just helped you by finding a body in the morgue, Sherlock. Anyone in my place would have—"

"No, I'm not talking about when I faked my death. I'm talking about when I was shot."

"What? I wasn't even there."

"You were. You know about my mind palace. You remember what I've told you about it?"

She did. She also remembered how fascinated she'd been when he'd described it in detail, how it worked and how it he was so careful with what information he filled it with. "Yes, of course."

"When I was shot, I went to my mind palace, desperate for a way to survive until help could arrive. I knew I didn't have much time, and that only someone truly brilliant could help me." He squeezed her hand again. "It was you, Molly. It was you who was there. You told me—step by step—what was happening to me and how to survive."

She shook her head, so overwhelmed that she could feel the tears pouring down her cheeks, but could do nothing to stop them.

He nodded. "Yes, it was you. Only you. I wouldn't have trusted anyone else to get me through it."

"But John—"

"John wasn't there. I swear. Whenever I'm at the end of my rope … when I'm at the bottom of the barrel and there's appears to be no other solution but to give up …" He stopped talking and frowned, as if he were irritated at himself for not being able to adequately explain what he meant. Then, in a flash, his whole demeanor changed like the answer had come to him. He shifted to sit nearer to her, staring her down. "Ask me, Molly."

Bewildered, she said, "Ask you what?"

"Ask me the question you always ask."

"What question?"

"The one you ask whenever you see me at the end of my rope, when I'm at the bottom of the barrel and there's no other solution but for me to give up. Ask me, Molly."

She knew then what he wanted. _No._ _Don't do it._ If she gave in, there would be no stopping him. "Sherlock, no—"

"Yes, ask me."

"It's not—"

"_I beg you_."

His voice was full of desperation. He gripped her hand like it was the only thing saving him from drowning, and she couldn't have denied him right then if her life had depended upon it. She never could when he was like this. Echoing the strength of his hand on hers, heart squeezed painfully, and she felt an unwelcome pleasure of being needed. By _him,_ of all people. She sighed.

"Ask me, Molly."

"What do you need?"

His answer was swift and sure. "You. Just you."

"OK." Her voice was low and whisper soft, but she knew he'd still heard her.

Sherlock raised her hand, bringing it to his lips to press a gentle, but ardent kiss across her knuckles. He'd closed his eyes, and she saw a tremor of some deep emotion pass over his face. To be treated with such care and such affection, it was too much. It was the single most romantic moment in Molly's life. _Maybe this can work, after all._

Finally, he opened his eyes and looked at her. A slow, winsome smile stretched over his face. She smiled back, hit with an unexpected bout of euphoria. It was unbelievable. She, mousy Molly Hooper, was in a romantic relationship with Sherlock Holmes. _Sure_, a small voice in the back of her head interjected, _but not the one you wanted. _

_It's Sherlock. I'll make do._ She felt drunk in the knowledge that she could have him—or at least as more of him than he'd ever offer anyone else. _I'll take it._ She knew she should berate herself for settling like this, but she could summon the energy or care to do so. _He needs me. He needs _me_._

"Excellent. Now," he said, releasing her hand as he scooted back a bit on the sofa. Then, steepling his fingers under his chin, he said, "One more last thing to handle, and we can consider this whole matter settled."

"And what thing is that?"

"My virgin status."


	22. Virgin Territory

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Virgin Territory**

"It's OK that you're a virgin."

"I know it's OK." The second the words left his mouth, Sherlock wanted to recall them. They'd come out entirely too fast. _Not good_. The upward pitch of his voice also belied defensiveness on his part. _Very not good._ Then again, everything had stopped going according to any kind of plan the second this woman had entered his flat.

Instead of bluntly calling him a liar—as he would have done her if the situation were reversed—Molly leaned in and said, "Actually, it's kind of … arousing … that I'll be your first lover."

He wasn't sure if it was what she'd said or the throaty way she'd said it, but something had caused a great deal of blood and heat to begin pooling in his lap. Sherlock tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. The dryness crept into his throat, which made him to cough. Molly reached a hand towards him, but he instinctively jumped back, slamming into the arm of the sofa. His bruised ribs reminded him of their existence. Sherlock scrambled to his feet and beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen, intent on getting a glass of water and a better hold on himself.

_Extremely not good._ He snagged a glass from the cupboard, sloshed some water into it, and downed it in one gulp. _Get a hold of yourself, man._ He pushed the empty glass back under the running tap, trying to figure out how to properly explain himself without making this whole situation any more unbearable. _Perhaps it would be better if I skipped the explanation, kissed her, and let nature take its course? _Kissing her had worked quite well earlier.

The idea that, after all these years of consciously abstaining, he was taking a lover—much less a … _girlfriend_—was too much to think about right now. If he thought about it, he wouldn't do it. He would detail the myriad of reasons this was wrong, not only for him, but for her. Sherlock knew that, but the idea of Molly Hooper leaving his life for good was just as unthinkable. More so, actually. _You can do this._

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

He jolted at the sound of her voice at the doorway. Keeping his glass under the tap, he looked at her, trying to act nonchalant. "Getting some water, of course. I needed water. Is there a problem with me getting water?"

"You're overfilling your glass."

Sherlock turned, surprised to see the liquid running freely over his glass and hand and splattering down into the sink and along the counters. From the amount of spray everywhere, any moron could deduce the glass had been filled for quite some time now. _How did I miss that?_ He turned off the tap, jerking the glass towards himself. But this only succeeded in getting water sloshed down the front of his shirt. _Jesus._ He grabbed a nearby hand towel and tried to quickly mop himself dry with what little dignity he could muster.

Molly took all of this in from the doorway, a sweet half-smile on her face as if she found the whole thing endearing. That only made matters worse. Then, she had to talk and take it from worse to intolerable.

"We don't have to do anything tonight, if you don't want to. We can take things as slow as you like, you know. Until you're comfortable. And ready."

"M-M-Molly," Sherlock said, clearing his throat to rid himself of this absurd stutter. It wasn't helping his case. None of this was. _What the hell is wrong with me?_ He knew the answer to that, but refused to dwell on it. Best to move on. "Where did you get the ridiculous idea that I'm a virgin?"

She shrugged. "I know, and it's fine. Does it matter?"

"It matters. Tell me," he said.

"It was when I kissed you. I'd always known you weren't big on sex, but I thought that was … well, for other reasons. But when I kissed you in my room, everything became clear."

Nothing was clear to Sherlock. "What are you talking about?"

Molly frowned. "When I kissed you …"

"Yes?"

"And you …"

"Yes?"

"Well, you …"

"Yes!?" His voice hit a high octave on the third "yes," but he didn't care. Here he was, minutes into a relationship, and she was already driving him insane. He'd always known the danger of females, but never knew they could work this fast.

"You didn't kiss me back."

That proclamation hit Sherlock like a ton of bricks. _What?_ He racked his brain, trying to recall. The memory of her kissing him was vivid. He had, after all, replayed it in his mind many times. Mostly because he hadn't been able to understand what it was about her mouth on his that had affected him as it had, but also—if he was being honest with himself—because he'd been stunned that Molly Hooper could evoke such a reaction in him. _Molly Hooper?_

He said, "I was surprised. That's all."

"I kissed you a long while, Sherlock. Too long for surprise to be the reason you didn't respond."

He remembered the hurt on her face and how she'd clambered back into her bed, as if she couldn't get away from him fast enough. He'd known she'd taken his lack of response as rejection, but this? Never. "And this is the reason you think I'm a virgin?"

"I put everything I had into that kiss. No man has ever withstood it as you did."

_I wish I'd withstood it as much as she thinks I did. _

She sighed. "It was like kissing a statue."

Since he had no ready reply to that, he gulped down more water to give himself time to form one. Finally, when the glass was empty, he patted his mouth dry with the towel and said, "I kissed you earlier. Quite vigorously. And I might add, you responded just as vigorously."

"You mimicked me."

"What?" _She knows?_ He raised his glass to swallow more water, but there was none to be had.

"You kissed me the same way I had kissed you. It was like you memorized everything I did to you and then repeated it back to me." Her eyes narrowed at him as she took in the disbelief no doubt written on his face. "Did you think I wouldn't notice? A few of those moves you employed I invented, buddy."

"_Buddy_?"

She clasped her hands in front of her and fully entered the kitchen, stepping uncomfortably close to him. "Now, if this romantic relationship between us is going to work—"

"I wouldn't call it _romantic_."

That stopped her. "You want it to be platonic then?"

He considered this barely a second before he muttered, "No."

She grinned, triumphant. "As I was saying, if this romantic relationship—"

"But do we actually _have_ to say it like that?"

She sighed again, louder and heavier this time. "If this _companionship_ …" She paused to look at him expectantly.

He inclined his head in agreement and gestured for her to continue.

"If this companionship is going to work, we need to be honest with each other. Completely. Can you handle that?"

_Does she not realize what she's asking? People think they want honesty, but that rarely turns out to be the case._ "Yes, but I'm not sure you can."

The seemed to stump her. She stared at him, eyebrows raised.

He explained, "My honesty has a tendency to offend the general populace. In fact, my honesty has, on more than one occasion, caused you to leave the room in tears."

Molly seemed to deliberate the ramifications of this carefully before she said, "I don't care. I want you to be honest. I can handle it."

He smiled, liking this already. At last, something positive was coming from this. No more having to watch his words. This could turn out better than when he lived with John.

"But no manipulating me."

_Then, she has to go and ruin it._ "But what if I really need you to do something and you refuse?"

"Then, I refuse and you accept it."

His previous happiness vanished. Then, just as quickly, something occurred to him. _Maybe if I'm careful and Molly doesn't realize I'm manipulating her, it won't count. _"Fine."

Molly frowned, wagging a finger in his direction. "I mean it, Sherlock. I catch you trying to manipulate me one time, and I'm out of here. Got it?"

The panic and fear returned, and he knew in that moment that he would do anything to make that go away for good. Even break every rule he'd ever made for himself. It was also odd—and decided inconvenient at times like these—how well she knew him. "Fine."

He watched her shoulders relax. Somehow, this small gesture calmed him as well.

"If we're being honest with each other," he said, "then it's my duty to inform you I'm not a virgin."

Her face fell, almost as if she were disappointed. _Does she want me to be a virgin? Don't women usually prefer a more experienced partner in the bedroom arts?_ He remembered her saying how arousing she had found the idea of being his first lover, but he'd thought at the time that she was mostly trying to make him feel better.

She edged closer, her eyes searching his face as if looking for traces of a lie. Guilelessly, he stared back at her, knowing there were no traces to be found.

"You … you're … you're not?" she asked.

He shook his head, waiting to see what else she would do. He'd always thought he knew Molly Hooper, but he was slowly starting to realize just how untrue that was_. Fascinating._

"What—When—How?" she sputtered, apparently unable to complete a question.

"Nineteen. University. It was more of an experiment than anything else. Well," he added, "and boredom."

Molly opened her mouth, surely to ask more questions. He rushed ahead, already knowing the answers she sought. "I have no idea who she was or the particulars. In fact, I deleted the memory a long time ago. I also deleted the kissing, which is why I was a little unsure of how to proceed. With Janine, she seemed to like it when I mimicked her moves. You don't?"

"It's fine," she said, still seeming too surprised to say anything else.

"The only thing I kept were the bare facts. I figured they might come in handy one day."

"You just deleted the memory?"

He nodded. "You remember when I explained about my mind palace? Well, I only retain those facts and memories that are truly important. Everything else I delete to make room."

Something about that seemed to disappoint her, but he couldn't fathom why that would be.

"So, you had sex one time."

"No, there were others."

"Others?" she repeated, her voice sounding oddly hollow.

He shrugged. "I don't know how many exactly. I deleted them."

She opened her mouth again, but he beat her to the punch. "Why have sex? The same reason most people have it, I suppose. Sex is pleasurable, and I was young. It was nice, the rush, the freeing of feeling of not having to be in my brain for those minutes, but it wasn't enough. Soon, I got bored and didn't like the obligations that went with it; so I gave it up."

"'Gave it up'? You make it sound like its cigarettes or alcohol."

"Isn't it?"

She considered this before she said, "I guess. What obligations came with it?"

"Sex usually goes hand in hand with relationships. I don't do well with relationships—with few exceptions. From early on, I've been married to my work. A choice had to be made. I chose work. Besides, as I told you before, suppressing emotions helps me be a better detective."

She looked away from him, her face pensive in a way that didn't make him hopeful that this conversation was over. After a bit, Molly moved over to the table and collapsed into one of the chairs. One of her hands landed on the table, flattened out against the grain of the wood.

Panic returned. Molly looked like she was reconsidering things. He didn't like that. She had agreed to this. She knew him. She said she wanted honesty. She couldn't take it back now. He watched as the hand slowly transformed into a fist. He wanted to say something, anything so she wouldn't look like that anymore. But instinct told him to wait while she processed everything. So, he waited.

Finally, the fist loosened and she glanced up at him. "This won't work."

"Yes it will."

"This is madness."

"Relationships usually are—or so I'm told."

"You're married to your work. How many times have you told me that?"

"So?"

"If you're married to your work, what does that make me?"

"The one woman who won't be threatened by my work. The one woman who understands me. The one woman I trust above all others. My companion. The one I choose. I've never had a romantic relationship, Molly. Never. Never wanted one."

"You don't want one now."

"I want you. Isn't that enough?"

"You gave up sex, remember?"

He sighed. "The obligations I spoke of before? Well, having sex with someone involves a certain level of trust and intimacy and connection. Even if one completely removes themselves from the intimacy and connection of sex, you can't remove yourself from the trust. There are few people I trust in my life. In fact, there are only three. You are one." He moved to stand next to her. "So trust me when I say I can handle this. I can't promise it's going to always work out or that I'm always going to do the right thing. But I can promise that I _want_ this. I want you."

The fist flattened out again as she used it to rise from her seat. They stood together, barely an inch of space between them. Neither spoke. Sherlock barely breathed. Then, at last, her hand crept across the space until it was pressed against the top of his still soggy shirt.

"You're all wet," she said. Slowly, her head tilted upward. Her eyes locked with his. Those eyes. Deep, dark caverns. So easy to get lost in.

"Yes," he said, huskily.

"Take off your shirt."

He remembered when she'd said that and he'd nearly come out of his skin. _Was it really only yesterday? _It felt like years ago. Without hesitation, he said, "You take it off."

Her hands shook as they went about their task. Still, the buttons were undone quickly, and the material of his shirt was spread as her hands caressed him, bringing delicious warmth to his wet, cold skin. She tugged the shirt over his shoulders. He helped her, shrugging it to the floor.

"Oh," she said, her fingers resting over his ribs.

He looked down, suddenly remembering how sore he was there.

She said, "You took off the tape."

"Yes."

"You're still pretty badly bruised. Does it hurt?"

"Yes."

Molly lowered her head and placed a series of soft, warm kisses against the bruise. Any soreness he'd experienced evaporated, replaced by an ache of another kind. She darted a gaze back up at him.

"Want me to make it better?"

He couldn't seem to catch his breath. "Y-y-yes."

Straightening, she took his hand in hers and pulled him out of the kitchen. "Come with me then."

Sherlock couldn't have denied her even if he wanted to. In fact, all the only thing he could think to utter as he followed her down the short hallway to his bedroom was the same word he'd been saying.

"Yes."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Warning (since I promised someone I would issue a warning): I'm gonna earn my M rating in the next chapter.**


	23. The Undone And The Divine

**Chapter Twenty-Three: The Undone And The Divine**

After the bedroom door was closed behind them—and locked securely because Mrs. Hudson did not always await permission to enter during her laundry-collecting fits–Sherlock leaned down to kiss Molly. Her mouth was just as he remembered it. Supple and welcoming and magnificent to partake. She claimed a more passive role, taking everything he had to give. He knew this was a boon she was granting him. It allowed him the freedom to explore, which he did in great detail, to craft his own moves—since she'd practically thrown down the gauntlet when she'd pointed out that he'd mimicked hers—and to gauge what particularly stimulated her and what did not.

He started out slow with long, open-mouthed kisses. These changed shortly to him nibbling around the edge of her lips before finally sucking her bottom lip between his own. Molly seemed to especially like that. When he shifted back to the more leisurely kisses, she let out a little moan of vexation, took matters in her own hands, and thrust her tongue into his mouth. It was teasing dash of tongue, sliding alluringly against his before moving away. Spurred, he reciprocated, angling his head to deepen the kiss. She sighed and melted into him.

After a few more moments of heated kissing, she abruptly pulled away. Disoriented, Sherlock reached out to bring her back, but his hands grasped air as she nimbly escaped him and receded towards the bed. Her shoes and socks came off first. Next, she reached up, removing the hair tie from her customary ponytail. Her jumper and undershirt followed, swinging over her head and disappearing across the room. He blinked in wonder as mounds of brown hair spiked with hints of red spilled about Molly's milky shoulders. Her eyes watched him, as warm and comforting as a cup of chocolate on a blistery morning. Her cheeks were splashed with a rosy hue which matched the color of her swollen lips. Had she always been this beautiful? If so, how had he not seen it?

_I always miss something._

He closed the distance between them, running a hand up her arm, around her shoulder past the thin strap of her white cotton bra, up the slim column of her neck, and into her hair to cradle the back of her head. His other hand cupped and caressed her shoulder, pulling her more fully into his embrace.

"You're so small," he breathed.

She curled into herself defensively. It was so subtle an action that, if he hadn't been touching her, he'd have missed it.

"What? What did I do?" he asked, bewildered at how he might have caused offense.

Molly jerked away from him. Arms crossed themselves over her form self-consciously, hiding the gentle swell of her breasts from his view. Then, as if she'd changed her mind, she shot him a determined glare. Reaching behind her, she unhooked the bra, pulled it free of her body, and tossed it to the floor. There, she stared him down, spine straight, shoulders back, arms at her sides, pert breasts pointing at him. The right one was slightly larger than the left. His eyes feasted on these creamy-looking mounds, paying particular attention to the hardened nipples the color of bruised raspberries. Sherlock yearned to taste them, to see if they would be as divine as he imagined.

Molly's expression stopped him.

"This is me, Sherlock."

"Yes?" he said, unsure why she was telling him this.

"Take it or leave it."

_Is this the beginning of another detailed conversation?_ If so, it would be midnight before they actually got down to business. He had no patience for that. _Not now._ After years of purposefully abstaining from sex and suppressing his needs in that area (while inwardly mocking those who didn't), this was a humbling admission to make. "Why would you think I wouldn't take you? Haven't I made myself clear?"

"My breasts are small."

Sherlock gave them another glance. He couldn't help himself. They were an utter delight. _Can't she see that? _He returned his attention to her face. "Yes."

"So is my mouth."

"So is everything about you, Molly. What is the purpose of this conversation?"

"You don't like small breasts or small mouths."

"What idiot told you that?"

"You did."

Few times in his life had Sherlock ever been this confused. Here he was standing in his bedroom shirtless across from an equally shirtless woman with who was spouting nonsense at him. "When did I tell you this?"

"During the Christmas party you and John had. Remember? You said I had dressed up because I was trying to compensate for the size of my mouth and breasts."

_Oh, dear God, will the ramifications of that horrendous night never cease?_ "As I recall, I also apologized for my rude remarks." When her expression remained unchanged, he added. "Without anyone telling me to."_ I should get credit for _that_ at least._

"The comment still stands," she said with a shrug. "You like what you like. Admit it." Her shrugging made her breasts jiggle in the most appealing way. It was all he could do to remain where he was.

There was a pause.

"Sherlock?"

He looked up. "Yes?"

"Did you hear what I said?"

He thought back a moment before it all came to him. To which, he replied, "I never indicated I preferred big breasts. I simply pointed out yours were small, which," he took the opportunity to look again, "they are. However, at no time have I stated I didn't like them. I do. Very much. In fact, I have quite explicit plans for your breasts just as soon as you get over whatever has upset you. More to the point, I think you'll be hard pressed to find a heterosexual male within this country who wouldn't like them. Men are a simple lot, Molly. We enjoy breasts pretty much on sight. Size is irrelevant."

"But when I took off my shirt, your first words were 'You're so small.' What am I to infer from that?"

"Woman," he growled, uncaring that his frustration was showing. He was boiling over here. She needed to know that. "That wasn't a comment on your breasts. It was about you as a whole. In case it's escaped your notice, you _are_ small. In comparison to me, you seem ever more so. I feel like I could break you with the weakest of grips. _That_ is what I was talking about. Would you prefer I use another word to describe you? Petite, perhaps? I—"

He wasn't able to finish as Molly rushed him, wrapping her arms around his neck and tugging him into a kiss. _Thank God._ For a petite woman, she had an uncommon strength. He liked that, especially considering that it meant the breasts they'd been so thoroughly discussing were now rubbing nicely against his bare chest. He returned her kiss, sliding his hands down to touch them. Their softness made him want more, but Molly wasn't done with him yet. Her enthusiasm was so great that she began to rain kisses along his jaw and down his neck. His hands fell away as he let her have her way with him. When she stopped to run her hot tongue along the ridge of his collar bone, he felt himself tremble in way he never had before. _Molly Hooper_, he thought with amazement. _Who knew?_

Her hands moved down from his neck, caressing his bare chest as if she were a blind person memorizing a path. When they made it to his side, he jolted. She stopped to look at him.

"Ticklish?" she said with a roguish grin.

Not in the mood to be teased, he groaned, picked her up, and walked over to bed.

"Should you be carrying me? Be careful of your ribs," she warned, pressing more kisses against his neck.

He settled her on the bed. "You talk too much," he said, giving her a quick kiss before he straightened and moved away from the bed.

Molly propped herself up on her elbows. "You want me to shut up?" she taunted.

He nodded, undoing the top of his trousers.

Molly spread her legs, placing her feet flat on the bed and stiffening her spine so her breasts thrust out at him. The picture she made, clad as she was in a pair of grey trousers and nothing else, should have been laughable or, at the very least, vulgar. But it wasn't. It was the single most provocative image he'd ever seen.

He yanked off his trousers with a flourish, trying to be equally provocative. Unfortunately, he forgot about his shoes, which greatly hindered his progress. So much so that he ended up hopping around on one leg as he tried vainly to correct the situation.

Molly giggled. The humor caused a most becoming bloom of pink to spread down her chest and over her breasts. Finally free of his shoes, Sherlock rid himself of his trousers and adeptly shucked his shorts.

_That shut her up._

She was watching him. He smirked as he advanced on her, stalking her. The smile slid right off face, and her eyes widened. Starting at the end of the bed, he knelt on the bed and, getting on all fours, crawled towards her. Inch by inch, he didn't stop until he was covering her with his body. Molly's arms collapsed out from under her, leaving her flat on the bed. He took advantage to capture her lips. But he didn't stay there long. He was too intent on teaching her a lesson.

Sprinkling kisses along her jawline, he moved down slowly down her neck. Her hands came up, gripping at his arms and surging against him. He spared only a moment to press a single kiss between her breasts before he went right for what he'd been wanting all along. The first taste of her in his mouth, and he was undone. He rolled the nipple between his tongue and lip, laving it and teasing it before he sucked more of the breast into his mouth.

Molly moaned, her hands moving down his back. Her nails dug in there when he changed breasts. When he ran his teeth lightly along the ridges of her areola, she gasped and the same hands which had been digging into the small of his back were suddenly clutching his buttocks. He tensed and looked down at her.

She smiled back at him. "Problem?"

"Got a firm hold there, do you?"

"Been wanting to do this a long time," she answered, brazenly massaging the globes of his arse and pulled at his hips so his hardened penis rubbed against the rough fabric of her trousers.

He chuckled, riveted by this wild facet of Molly. He wondered idly how many people had seen it. Surely not Tom. If so, he'd never have let her go, no matter what she'd said trying to break things off.

Sherlock leaned all of his weight on one arm, using the free one to grasp her right breast. It fit comfortably in his hand. He lightly squeezed the silky flesh. "I know what you mean."

Molly arched like a cat enjoying a good petting. "I seriously doubt that," she said. "You have no idea how long I've wanted you." She lifted a hand to run it against his cheek. "No idea at all. If you did, you'd run right out the door."

He stared down at her, once more lost in her eyes. "Then, show me. Take me. Tonight, I'm yours."

"Be careful what you wish for," she said, hooking a leg around his hip.

There was humor in her expression, but something about the way she said her words made them feel prophetic and somehow permanent. He ignored this feeling and replied, "What is the slang they use today? Bring it on?"

Suddenly, without an ounce of notice, he was flipped onto the flat of his back. It made his ribs ache like the devil, but he was too surprised—and frankly aroused that Molly could pull off such a stunt—to complain. "Where did you—"

"I've got a lot more experience in the bedroom than you do, Sherlock." She straddled him. "I know all sorts of tricks. Watch and learn." Leaning down, she kissed him. She wasn't passive now. If anything, it took all he had to keep up with her. She inflamed him, devoured him, her tongue doing things he'd never before thought possible. Then, when she'd tamed his mouth, she dismounted him and moved south. When her trail of nips and kisses made it to his chest, she halted to gorge on his nipples. Her mouth was relentless, her tongue was a miracle, and the slight grading of her teeth … Well, he nearly spent himself then and there. Were it not for nearly a lifetime of experience suppressing himself, he might have.

_Jesus, we haven't even gotten to the actual sex yet, and here I am acting like the virgin she thought I was._

She moved lower, peppering his torso with kisses. Molly licked his hip bone, her hands caressing his arse and legs. Then, when he thought he would die in agony, she took his turgid penis in her hands. He hissed. Loudly. After a few skillful strokes, she kissed the tip and gave it a swirling lick. Then, her eyes locking with his, Molly took no prisoners and swallowed him in one gulp.

The heat and suction of her mouth, the feel of her all around him, the way she held and massaged his testicles even while she sucked him, it was too much to take in. His hips thrust against her unconsciously. He said things. Blabbered, begged really. He knew he did, but he couldn't make out what exactly he'd said. He only knew she mustn't ever stop this.

The sensations were everything he remembered, but so much more. They were heightened somehow, intensified, spiraling out of control. He wasn't sure if it was because of the length of time between now and his memory or that he'd deleted so much of it or if it was simply because it was Molly. He only knew he surely must be dying. Sherlock groaned. He panted. He keened against her.

Without warning, he exploded in her mouth. There was no holding it back. There was no time to consider holding it back. The glorious release was so consuming, he never wanted it to end. And it didn't. For a long time. Molly never let up. Not for one second. She kept milking him until he'd ridden every moment of pleasure and felt himself hardening again. He was this woman's willing prisoner. It was amazing.

Finally, with one more, soft kiss to his member, she released him. Rising up on her knees, Molly wiped the corner of her mouth and grinned at him._ Like the cat who got the cream_. Sherlock looked at this wanton, uninhibited creature in wonder, barely able to catch his breath. Then, without warning, she slipped from the bed.

"Where are you going?" he asked, sitting up in alarm. _Surely she didn't think this was over?_

She took off her trousers, standing before him in nothing but her pink, cotton pants. "Not going anywhere," she replied, her fingers slipping into the waistband. In one motion, she tugged the pants down and off. "I'm not done with you yet."

Sherlock didn't have time to look at her or even process what was happening before she was back on the bed, straddling him once more. He reached up, still in awe of her, to touch her breasts. He fondled them, running the pads of his thumbs against the rigid nipples. He pulled closer, intent on tasting them again. They were as heavenly as he remembered.

He suckled her. Molly moaned and leaned into him, allowing him unfettered access. His hands progressed along her generous curves, drifting down to her waist, past her hips, and towards her vagina. He switched his attention to her other breast even as his fingers probed and glided inside of her. Molly was slick and sultry and, as with everything else about her, welcoming. His thumb moved up to rub her clitoris.

Molly's head fell back as she pushed against him, demanding more. He tinkered a bit, trying to find the right amount of pressure to exert, the right amount of friction to employ. But he apparently took too long. Batting away his hands, she regained control. He let her. It was so much more stimulating with her in charge. Gripping his penis, Molly gave him a few strokes before positioning him at her opening. Sherlock felt the head of his penis slip inside her. _Heaven. That's what this is._ Then, without warning, Molly brought her body down on him, taking him fully inside of her in one fell swoop.

"Yes. Oh, Molly," he said, gutturally. He'd thought her mouth on him to be the peak of pleasure. But he was wrong. Never in his life had he been happier to be wrong. The tactile sensations … _Oh God._

She didn't wait on him. No, like a woman on a mission, Molly began to move. Gripping fervently at his shoulders, she rocked against him. She was majestic. A goddess among mortals. Her hips flexed, her pelvis squeezed, her entire body seemed to clench around him. She whimpered, mewed like a kitten, seemed to find a position she really liked and increased her speed. At first, Sherlock held on, trying to catch her rhythm. All too soon, he found it. Then, it was like dancing. He advanced while she receded. She charged while he subsided. This continued until they were worked in tandem, intent on following this concentrated passion wherever it might lead.

"Sherlock," she moaned. "Yes, yes. Don't you dare stop. Please … yes!"

Sherlock thrust, and thrust and thrust. He couldn't have ceased even if he had wanted to.

Molly let out a strangled cry and fell to pieces. His hands clamped around her hips, holding her to him, as he buried his face in her neck. Something about her coming apart in his arms sent him over the edge. With a shout and a shudder, his orgasm was upon him. He erupted inside of her as the sweet, carnal satisfaction overwhelmed him.

Finally, they both collapsed back on the bed. Sherlock fell backwards against the pillows, unable to stop himself. Molly slipped off of him, arranging herself at his side. They both fought for breath. Sherlock closed his eyes, riding the little aftershocks of bliss fizzling all over. Contentment and complete satiation took over after that. Honestly, he felt like he could sleep for a thousand years.

Opening his eyes, he looked over at Molly. She was flushed, sweaty hair matted to her neck and forehead. Yet, all of this could not hide the matching look of fulfillment on her face. Sherlock smiled at her. She smiled back.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

He grunted, not sure he could even recognize pain at this point. "I'm pretty sure that's my line."

"Oh, I'm fine." She stretched her arms over her head and arched her back, reminding him again of a feline. "Wonderful in fact."

"I should be hurting. It was like trying to keep my seat on a wild horse. I was afraid I was going to lose my life more than once."

Her eyes zipped to him. "Is that a complaint?"

"No, quite the opposite, actually. I never would have thought you capable of such unrepressed decadence. Feel free to make me your love slave whenever you like."

Molly grinned, and he was struck again by her. Somehow amidst everything, she had grown more beautiful. It seemed so natural to reach for her, to pull her close to him, to hug her, to kiss her. Not because he wanted sex again, but just to be near her. But he stopped himself. The intimacy was so dense between them it was palpable. He'd never felt this close to anyone before. _Anyone._ It was a head rush of emotion that he didn't begin to know what to do with. It also made him decidedly uncomfortable. Exposed. Vulnerable. Defenseless.

_No._ The knot in his stomach he'd forgotten about reared its ugly head. Sherlock suppressed it all, needing to feel his feet under him once more. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress.

Then, he remembered pain. He groaned and held his side as it throbbed.

Her hand patted his back. "I'm taping those ribs again."

Sherlock flinched against her touch, but tried to cover it by hastily getting up from the bed. "How about we eat first? I'm starving." he said, pulling on one of his dressing gowns. "Shall I ring for takeaway? Chinese?"

It was only when he had the gown tied and a better hold on himself that Sherlock dared to dart a furtive glance at her. The unabashed love kitten/sex goddess in his bed was gone. In her place was little Molly Hooper, holding one of his pillows against her petite form. At the speed of a coin flip, the space between them had become uninviting and unwieldy.

"Sounds good. I'll take a shower," she replied with a smile. "You know what I like."

Her expression was a brittle facade, but he certainly wasn't going to call her on it.

He nodded. "Indeed, I do. Feel free to avail yourself to one of my dressing gowns when you're done." And with that, he left his room and awkwardness between them behind.

_If only I could leave behind everything else as easily._


	24. Great Expectations

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Great Expectations**

Molly nicked her leg shaving, stubbed her toe getting out of the shower, and nearly took a tumble slipping on the wet floor as she reached for a towel. Still, she considered as she dried herself off, these weren't the worst thing to happen to her today.

Wrapping the towel around herself, she carefully padded over to the sink. She wiped off the condensation fogging the mirror and stared at herself. Somehow, she'd always believed that if she and Sherlock ever got to this point, things between them would be better. She wasn't a naïve little girl who thought sex could solve everything or that post-coital bliss would hit Sherlock like a hammer to the head, making him realize he was and always had been desperately in love with her. But she had assumed the experience would leave her gratified to have the connection with him and relieved to finally understand a bit better what it was that made this enigmatic man tick.

Instead, she felt lousy and the encounter had only complicated matters with more issues, questions, and mystery.

One minute, they had been basking in the afterglow of what could have easily been termed as fabulous sex. Sherlock had been relaxed, smiling, and oh so charming that Molly had seriously considered rolling closer just to kiss him. The look they'd shared made her feel they were finally on equal footing and satisfied in her agreement to this risky arrangement he'd proposed. Then, like the stroke of midnight for Cinderella, the spell was broken. All the warmth and relaxed amiability in Sherlock had vanished, replaced with something cold and aloof.

Rising from the bed, he'd moved across the room, putting on his dressing gown as if he were alone. Observing the way he conducted himself, so detached from her and what they'd just done was a slap in the face. Watching him leave her without a single backwards glance was worse. The sinking feeling of dread in her stomach that accompanied his absence had become nearly unbearable as she'd showered.

Something had happened to Sherlock. The questions were what … and why.

It was a natural inclination for Molly to wonder what she'd done to offend him, but that was ridiculous. She'd done nothing. He'd plainly enjoyed their time together. He'd even said she could make him her "love slave" anytime she liked. _No_, she considered, _whatever this is isn't me. It's him._ But what was bothering him or why it was bothering him, she didn't know.

_Second thoughts, perhaps?_ While this was certainly possible, it didn't feel wholly accurate to her. They'd done too much talking beforehand. Sherlock had been too adamant about the arrangement he'd proposed to not have fully thought it through. Sherlock always thought everything through. And once he made up his mind about something, he rarely waivered.

There was a third option, of course. This was Sherlock being Sherlock. He'd told her pointedly he would not suffer well with romantic tropes, and no one could ever claim he followed society norms when it came to expressing himself. He had, after all, spent years suppressing his emotions and compartmentalizing everything. Sex, even though he wasn't a virgin, wasn't something he was used to. And it took some getting used to. There was innate, inescapable vulnerability that went with it. Sherlock wouldn't have liked feeling like that. Obviously, that could explain why everything between them had shifted as they did.

"You're in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes," she told her reflection. "What did you expect?"

_More._ She flinched. _I always want more from him_. Molly looked away from the mirror, hating this weakness she had. She knew better than to do so, but she always yearned for more where he was concerned. Sherlock had made a lot of allowances for her, open doors in his life to make room for her, and trusted her when he had trusted no one else. That was the most he'd ever offered any woman and it should be enough for her.

It should be, but it wasn't.

As she cleaned her teeth, Molly remembered back to when she'd first proposed living with him. She'd been so consumed with not being sent away from him that she hadn't really paid attention to what he'd been trying to say. He'd been attempting to warn her off of him. All that "married to his work" business. Was this why? It had to be. Sherlock was aware of his own shortcomings. Truth be told, he'd been warning her of them since nearly the first day of their acquaintance.

She rinsed her mouth and straightened to look again in the mirror. A pale, weak-looking woman peered back at her.

"Suck it up, Hooper. You love him, flaws and all. If you want to be with him, you'll have to make some adjustments to your expectations."

_Which will, no doubt, include dealing with a lot of bruised feelings._ But that was pretty normal when one was around Sherlock. He usually more than made up for it in other ways. Even as much as his sudden indifference had cut her to the quick, the memory of their time together before that made up for it. The relaxed way he'd talked to her. The sincerity in his expressions. He wanted her. He'd said so. The splendor of his face as they were joined, his intensity as they made love, and the way he held her to him so desperately was something no one could ever take away. No one knew that side of him. No one except her. The tightly-controlled consulting detective had been putty in her hands—if only for a little while. And, if she had the fortitude to stick this out, he would be again. _And again and again._ _He's mine. Not all of him, of course. But enough._

Better still, he had promised to be honest with her and no more manipulations. She knew how hard that would be for him, but he had promised. To make such promises, he clearly respected her and her place in his life. That had to count for something.

_I am willing to guarantee you fidelity, respect, adventure, affection, scientific experimentation, and a remarkable, two-bedroom flat with a live-in Mrs. Hudson. Who else can offer you that?_

She smiled, remembering his quirky proposal. She also thought back to Tom who'd always been overly affectionate and kind and generous. The first time she'd slept with him, Tom had stayed in bed cuddling her for hours and got up to make her breakfast, never letting her lift a finger to help. He also always got home on time, routinely cleaned up after himself, and often gave her the lead in decision making. Molly tried to imagine Sherlock doing any of that, but it was absurd. Tom had been everything a man should be to a woman.

_And you were bored out of your mind. Couldn't get away fast enough, could you?_

A light knock sounded at the door.

"Molly, food is here."

Sherlock's deep baritone. A strange shiver went through her at the sound. She frowned, trying to put herself to rights. "Be out soon." Even as she said it, she knew she wasn't ready to face him. Not yet.

After cleaning and affixing a plaster to the cut on her leg, Molly towel-dried her wet hair. Then, starting at the bottom and methodically working her way upward, she eased the snarls and tangles out of with a wide-mouthed, wooden comb. When the comb could be run through her hair unobstructed, she turned to the tube of lavender-scented lotion that she kept on the sink and began applying it generously to her body.

She paused when thought she heard someone else enter the flat. There were at least two people walking around and the distant hum of Sherlock speaking to someone. _Probably Mrs. Hudson._ The landlady had a penchant for showing up at all hours. Molly had grown as used to it as Sherlock. So much that she hardly ever batted an eye anymore.

She rubbed lotion into her calf and up her thigh, humming to herself so she wouldn't have to hear Sherlock. His voice, even though she couldn't make out what he was saying, was distracting. He was always distracting her, had always distracted her. She should hate him for it, but she never had. She knew now she never would.

As she massaged the lotion into her arms and across her shoulders, Molly knew she could accept Sherlock's shortcomings. And, while she knew better than to ever try to change any man, experience had taught her that she could encourage the consulting detective to make small adjustments to his behavior. He had listened to her advice concerning issues he'd had with John. Quite often, in fact. He even paid attention when she pointed out when he was making a berk of himself with her. She remembered back to that mortifying Christmas party, what she'd said to bring him low. He'd immediately apologized to her—something she'd once thought to never see. Maybe that's what she needed to do. After all, this relationship was new to both of them. There had to be a margin for error and a reasonable learning curve. That they'd known each other for years meant nothing. They hadn't known each other like this.

Whatever _this_ is.

Permanent companionship. That's how he'd termed it. In a sweet, Sherlockian kind of way, it was tantamount to a marriage proposal. Not that she really needed that. Molly knew she wasn't the kind of woman who needed a husband and children to complete her. They weren't check boxes she needed to tick in order to consider herself successful. She'd worked damn hard to get where she was in life. Her career wasn't one in which many women excelled—especially at as early an age as she. And there was still so much more she wanted to achieve. She wasn't ready or willing to give any of it up, and marriage and children had a way of making a woman do that—modern world or not.

Whether Sherlock believed her or not, she had been truthful when she said she was married to her work. Being lonely had long been a problem, of course. Someone to come home to, someone to take care of and who would take care of her, someone to share a laugh with or whose shoulder you could cry on from time to time, and someone who stimulated her both inside the bedroom and out. That's all she'd ever really wanted. Sherlock could give her most of that. Probably more than any other man had ever been able to.

_If I can suck it up long enough to show him how._

Yes, Molly decided, capping the lotion and returning it to its position on the sink. She could remain adaptable to Sherlock varying eccentricities and shore up some of her expectations. Then perhaps, with time, patience, and more than a little determination, she could teach Sherlock how to be in a relationship.

She thought she heard some rustling around in his bedroom, but she ignored this in favor of putting on his forest green dressing gown, which she'd brought in with her. Gathering all her hair up in a wet ball which she secured with a pink, cloth-covered hair tie, Molly opened the main door to the bathroom, prepared to take on anything.

And nearly plowed into Greg Lestrade.

"Greg?" she said, stumbling as she tried to avoid colliding with him. Thankfully, he caught her by the shoulders and righted her.

"Hi, Molly," the detective inspector said, giving her a friendly pat on the arm as he released her. "You all right?" His eyes roved over her, seeming surprised to see her attired as she was.

"Yes. Didn't know you were here. Took me by surprise. I was just getting a shower, you see," she explained.

"Why are you wearing Sherlock's robe?"

_He's going to know we had sex._ The second that happened, she knew a deluge of questions were sure to follow, something she was not prepared to handle right now. Trying not to panic, she gave a small laugh. "You know how it is. You don't realize you left your pyjamas upstairs until you've already jumped into the shower." She smiled, hoping her voice didn't sound as high and squeaky to Greg as it did to her. "Besides," she added as an afterthought, "Sherlock ate the last of the chocolate biscuits; so I figured this was adequate payback."

Greg laughed. "Well, serves him right then. Good for you. Keeping him on his toes and all."

"What are you doing here? Is there some kind of emergency?" Her immediate thoughts were of Jim Moriarty, but something about Greg's mood told her that wasn't it.

"Need Sherlock to consult on a case. Kidnapping. Political official's son. High priority."

"Really? How terrible. How old is he?"

"Fifteen. They thought at first he'd slipped off to have a laugh with his mates, but a ransom note came in last night."

"Which is when you should have called me," Sherlock said, coming out of his bedroom fully clothed. The room suddenly seemed smaller. Or maybe it was that Sherlock's presence seemed to suck up all the space. For the first time in a long time, Molly was struck speechless by the sight of the consulting detective and how … _good_ he looked. More than good. Tasty, Luscious, Mouthwatering, even._ Mine. I just had sex with him. Mine. He was just inside me. Mine. Can Greg just go away so we can do it again? _But as quickly as she entertained these ridiculous thoughts, she dismissed them.

_What's wrong with you, Molly Hooper?_ After all, there was a kidnapped boy in need of help to consider. The fact that Sherlock seemed equally unaffected by her presence also did much to cool her ardor. He couldn't even be bothered to glance in her direction.

Greg was apparently in the mood to bicker. He strode closer to Sherlock. "I called you when I needed you."

"You needed me_ before_ they started sending body parts, Lestrade."

Molly gasped. "Body parts?"

"Left thumb," Sherlock answered, walking over to gather up his coat. He slid it on, grabbing his phone from where it lay next to his laptop. He studied something on the small screen for a moment. "Thankfully, the boy's right handed."

"How do you know that?" Greg demanded.

"It's obvious if you know where to look," Sherlock said, holding the mobile out to the detective inspector so the main screen was visible. Molly caught a glimpse of a picture of the greyish-blue joint of flesh that few people would be able to recognize as a thumb. She wanted to ask for a closer look, but didn't think that was a good idea considering everything.

Greg grimaced and looked away. "I've seen it, Sherlock. I'm the one who sent it to you, remember?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Let's go then. You've already wasted enough time as it is." Without another word, he started towards the front door, Greg at his side.

"Molly," the detective inspector said, with a tip of his head. "Always good to see you."

She smiled. "Good to see you as well, Greg."

Something about this brief exchange halted Sherlock in his tracks. His abrupt stop nearly caused Greg to crash into him. Sherlock paid this no mind as he flipped about and easily navigated around the older man to position himself directly across from Molly.

"Molly …"

There was a pause before she realized she was expected to answer. "Yes?"

He swallowed hard, and she realized he hadn't been waiting on a reply after all. It was more as if what he'd been wanting to say to her was stuck in his mouth. Suddenly, he stiffened in an overtly formal manner as he announced, "I don't know when I'll be back." It came out louder than he'd probably meant and she couldn't help but notice that, while he was certainly facing her and pointedly talking to her, he was looking at the wall behind her.

"OK," she quickly replied, not sure what was going on, but more than aware that they had an audience. Trying to act nonchalant, she shrugged. "I'll put your takeaway in the fridge so you can eat it another time."

"OK," he said.

"OK," she said. Then, realizing she sounded like a complete moron just repeating him like that, she added. "I'll see you later then."

"OK," he said. His eyes darted to meet hers. Briefly, ever so briefly. Then, he was staring at the wall again.

"OK," she repeated, not knowing what else to say.

Sherlock stepped towards her. Just as fast, he stopped himself. Finally, with a tip of his head in her direction, which was eerily similar to the one Greg had delivered moments before, he turned on heel and exited the flat.

Greg remained in his wake, seeming confused. "Is he all right?"

"Yes," she answered, unsure of what else to say. She wasn't going to attempt an explanation, especially when she wasn't altogether sure what that was herself.

Greg narrowed his eyes, studying her for a moment before he turned to stare at the empty doorway. He looked back. "Did you two have a row?"

"No." That_, at least, wasn't a lie._

Greg opened his mouth to say something else, but Sherlock's shout from downstairs ended that. "Must I drive your car as well as do your job, George?"

The detective inspector closed his eyes in exasperation. "He knows my name. I know he does. He only pretends otherwise to rile me."

As Molly wasn't so sure about that, she smiled and gave a noncommittal shrug. "Have fun."

Greg grunted and headed out the door. "Not likely," he called back.

All too soon, the noises and voices from downstairs faded and Molly was left in the quiet of the flat.

_Too quiet_, she thought. After changing into her favorite Piglet pyjamas, she returned downstairs with Sherlock's dressing gown. She hung this up in the bathroom and straightened up after herself in there before turning her attention to the food. She put Sherlock's takeaway carton in the fridge as she had promised and sat at the table with her own. Intent on not focusing on Sherlock any longer and staying busy, she brought the latest book she'd been reading with her.

Nearly half an hour later, the Lo Mein was finished and so was the last chapter. She closed it, deciding to leave it out so Sherlock could help himself. No matter how much he protested to the contrary, she knew he would like the third book in the trilogy. She idly wondered if he would find it as funny as she had.

At loose ends, she scrubbed the kitchen—even though it really didn't need it—and moved into his bedroom next. There was no way she was going to leave it in its current state for Mrs. Hudson to stumble upon. Molly knew the landlady was likely to find out about this latest turn in Sherlock and Molly's relationship sooner or later, but she would rather have it be later. _Much later._

The second she entered the room, Molly knew cleaning it had been a good idea. It still smelled of sweat and sex. The bed was in disarray, pillows strewn across the mattress, and the sheet and half the comforter flung to the floor. Clothes were tossed here and there. Molly was especially chagrined to see her undershirt was draped over a lamp. Remembering Sherlock's remarks about his annoyance at Janine leaving clothes everywhere, she started retrieving her items. Then, for good measure, she gathered up his clothes as well. She went to dump everything in the laundry bin in the bathroom. She stuffed everything in except for his shirt, which she held for a moment longer in her hand. Molly lifted the garment to her nose, inhaling deeply.

The sharp, spicy scent of the cologne he always wore gave her a head rush. But the second she started smiling, she stopped herself. _Now I'm smelling his dirty laundry?_ She frowned in disgust, quickly shoving the shirt under the other clothes. _This is worse than when you had a crush on the man. This isn't you, Molly Hooper. Go find something better to do with your time._

She attacked the bed next, stripping it. Once she it remade with fresh linens, Molly binned the dirty laundry and returned to the lounge, feeling as jittery as a chocoholic in need of a brownie. She wanted to talk to Sherlock, to get all of this—whatever this was—between them sorted. It was driving her to distraction to have everything up in the air. But it could be hours before he returned home. Days, even.

Molly plopped on the sofa. "Welcome to being in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes," she told herself bitterly. Just as quickly, the bitterness eased away. Sherlock was helping to reunite a scared and traumatized boy with his parents. He was making the world a better place and here she was being a prat because he wasn't on hand to talk to. She flicked on the telly and tried to immerse herself.

An hour later, her eyelids were drooping as the day's events started to take their toll. Molly switched off the television and got to her feet. She started shuffling towards Sherlock's bedroom, but stopped herself. Should she be sleeping in there? Is that where they were now or did sharing a bed fall under romantic tropes? Honestly, with Sherlock, it was hard to tell.

Molly thought back to how irritated he had seemed to have Janine invading his space all the time. _Well,_ she thought, _his bedroom is definitely his space._ In fact, in the entire time she'd lived with him, today had been the first day she'd ever been in there. _Stay adaptable,_ she told herself. _Shore up your expectations. _Quelling a small grumble of irritation, she turned on heel and headed to her bedroom. She could handle this. Stay positive.

_After all, tomorrow is bound to be better._


	25. The Craving

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Tomorrow**

Tomorrow was worse.

After a fretful night where sleep had eluded her, Molly crept downstairs in the early morning, intent on hashing things out with Sherlock. Anything so she wouldn't have to ruminate about this anymore. Unfortunately, the consulting detective wasn't there. One peek into his untouched bedroom told her he hadn't been home.

_Typical._

Muttering to herself, she shut his door and stomped into the kitchen to make coffee. On days like today, she truly missed Toby, her beloved feline companion. He'd run away shortly after she and Tom moved in together. She'd searched and searched for him, but he was well and truly gone. Tom had immediately proposed they get a dog, which they eventually did. But she'd never truly warmed to the puppy since every time she saw him, she thought about Toby and wondered how he was. She just hoped he'd been able to find a good home.

By the time she'd prepared her first cup of coffee, Molly decided she'd wallowed in this stuff with Sherlock long enough. Worry and anxiety helped nothing when she had no idea when he would return. Clearly, this latest case was a complex one. He could be at it for days. Besides, having a weekend off and the flat completely to herself were two luxuries she had no intention of wasting.

After a second cup of coffee, her usual good mood returned. Molly brought down her laptop, some reference materials, and her files and notes so she could begin outlining the idea she'd had for a paper. In her position at St. Bart's, she was expected to publish on a fairly regular basis. Living with Sherlock, however, made this difficult to do. Usually because it was hard to find the time to concentrate when Sherlock was around. This was especially true when he was at loose ends. The man could be an annoying terror when faced with boredom. This she knew well. And, if Molly did happen to find the time, her flatmate had usually commandeered the kitchen table with his experiments, leaving her with nowhere to truly be able to stretch out.

Spreading her supplies out at the now-cleared table, Molly settled down to work. When the outline was done, she turned to explore the subject a bit further in one of her books, cross referencing it with what she'd put in her notes and files. This led to a long sojourn on the St. Bart's research intranet. An hour or so passed in peace, intense study, and meticulous scribbling until she was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson.

"Good morning, dears," she called out.

Molly popped out from the kitchen to find the landlady hoisting her usual morning tea tray full of goodies for her favorite tenant.

"He's not here, I'm afraid," Molly said. "Greg came by last evening with a case from the Met."

"I thought I heard Sherlock yelling at someone on the stairs, but I was taking my herbal soothers and not up for visiting," Mrs. Hudson said, cleaning off the smaller table near the main window and laying out the tea things. "Come join me for a cuppa. I've got fresh blueberry scones."

"Sherlock prefers chocolate chip," Molly said, hurrying over to help the older woman set things out.

Mrs. Hudson gave her a wink. "Well, you like blueberry. I don't always have to bring tea around just for him, do I? He's spoilt enough as it is. Besides, if they're hot and he's hungry, that boy will eat any scone I put in front of him. Be a dear now and get the milk. I'm out downstairs."

Molly smiled, but she wasn't fooled. Obviously, Mrs. Hudson had figured out she was up here alone. There was only enough food to be split between the two of them and not a bite more. But it didn't matter. It had been a long time since she'd had a mother figure fussing over her, and she was intent on enjoying it. She hurried to the kitchen to fetch the milk.

Soon, both women were sharing a proper chat along with a light repast of tea, scones, jam, clotted cream, and a few sausage links. Mrs. Hudson commandeered most of the conversation, imparting the hottest gossip from the neighborhood as well as her delight at some new programme she'd found to watch.

"You should see it! I'm positively addicted. Mrs. Richardson from down the way got me hooked. She gave me Series One for my birthday. Well, I finished it in no time and had to run out and buy the others. It's like nothing you've ever seen. I mean, there's a lot of swearing and nudity and hacking people to bits, but it's the characters you fall in love with. Although, don't fall in love too much, dearie, or you'll get your heart broken when they suddenly kill them off."

Molly added a splash of milk before refreshing her cup with more tea. "Really? And what's it called?"

"_Game of Thrones_. Not my usual fare, I must say. But well worth the time. I'll bring up the first series if you want."

As Molly had nothing special planned for the remainder of the day other than finishing up work on the paper, to rest and ready herself for tomorrow's work day, and steadfastly avoid obsessing about her confusing relationship with a certain consulting detective, she readily agreed.

Mrs. Hudson broke open a scone, adding a smear of jam and a dollop of cream. "How are things getting on between you and Sherlock?"

Molly, who had been lifting her cup to her mouth to take a sip, paused. Her mind worked in overdrive. Was that the reason Mrs. Hudson had decided to visit her this morning when she knew Sherlock wasn't around? Did she suspect something had happened between them and come to get the scoop? _Oh, God_, Molly thought with dread. _What if she heard us yesterday? Her flat's just downstairs. Were we loud enough to be heard? _Honestly, she didn't know as she hadn't exactly been paying attention to any noises they were making at the time.

Mrs. Hudson, for her part, prattled on, seemingly unaware of the angst her simple query had caused. "You've been a real wonder these last few months, Molly. Not one word of complaint, which is amazing. You have the patience of a saint. I've told Sherlock that more than once. He's a tough one to live with. Believe me, I know, and John was always grousing when he stayed here."

Molly narrowed her eyes as she studied the landlady. _Nope, she knows nothing. I'd bet my life on it. _"It's fine. I just appreciate you all taking me in," she finally replied, taking a long swallow of her tea.

"You're always welcome. And Sherlock really is a sweet boy when he has a mind to be. I imagine he and John only had all those domestics because they were so in love. Hot sex will do that to you."

Molly choked. She couldn't help it. The mere idea of John and Sherlock like that … that Mrs. Hudson would actually think … It was too much! Mrs. Hudson handed her a napkin. Once her airway was clear again and all of the spray from the tea was wiped up, Molly said, "What was that you said about Sherlock and John?"

Mrs. Hudson cradled her own tea in both hands, barely hiding a Cheshire grin behind the delicate, rose-patterned cup. "Oh, I don't judge no one. To each his own, I say. I just know Sherlock was near heartbroken when John announced his intention to marry Mary. You should have seen him skulking about the flat like he was. Poor, lovesick fool. But after he pulled that stunt with faking his own death, anyone could see it was over romantically between those two boys. The heart can only take so much, you know." She sighed and sipped her beverage. "I'm just glad they were able to remain friends and go on with their adventures together. But I must say I was quite surprised to see John move on with a woman. A woman! Can you imagine?" She shrugged with a smile. "But I don't judge."

Molly opened her mouth to correct Mrs. Hudson on her many, many, _many_ misconceptions, but closed it just as quick. She had no interest in going down that particular rabbit hole. If Sherlock or John wanted that mess untangled, they could do it themselves. Still, Molly couldn't help the giggle that escaped her at the thought of how John would react to hearing all of that. She also couldn't help herself from saying, "Well, Sherlock moved on with a woman as well, didn't he? Janine?"

Mrs. Hudson scoffed and waved her off. "Oh her? That was for a case. Anyone paying attention could see that." She shrugged again. "Still, it was funny to watch Sherlock outmaneuver her. He's as slippery as an eel, that one. Janine was a stubborn girl. I'll give her that. Gave him quite a run for his money, she did. Always showing up at odd hours, staying over, trying to sit in his lap, snog him, and the like. But anyone could see how uncomfortable he was. Sherlock's a man who likes his space. Clinginess is the surest way to make him run for the hills."

Molly nodded. After all, she'd come to the same conclusion about the man a long time ago.

There was a twinkle of mirth in Mrs. Hudson's eyes as she added, "I wonder what she would have thought if she knew how many times he stole downstairs to sleep on my settee to get away from her or just plain snuck out on her at night." She gave a little laugh. "He didn't have_ that_ many cases. I was glad when all of it was over and done with. She kept rearranging my cupboards up here. I couldn't find anything. It was quite annoying. So nice to have things back to normal around here."

Somehow, Mrs. Hudson's words made her feel better. She couldn't exactly figure out why. Maybe it was because it reminded Molly of how well she knew Sherlock. She understood him sometimes better than she did herself. He might have been acting distant following their initial bout of sex, but he wouldn't have run out on her. He might be out on a case right now, but he would return, and when he did, they would work this out.

After the final scone was consumed and the last local scandal was broken down into juicy bits, Molly assisted Mrs. Hudson with tidying up.

"Thank you for the tea, the breakfast, and the company, Mrs. Hudson."

The elderly woman smiled at her. "Thank you for helping with cleaning the flat, Molly dear. You've been such a blessing to my poor hip, let me tell you. I've told Sherlock time and again that I'm not his housekeeper, but does he listen and clean up after himself? No. Just leaves it." She shook her head and muttered, "As if I'd let any part of my house fall to shambles." She picked up the tea tray again and started bustling for the door. "I'll be up in a bit to collect the laundry. Feel free to come down later if you get too lonesome up here by yourself. I'm of a mind to roast a chicken."

Molly didn't bother to tell the landlady she didn't have to do her laundry. Doubtless, she'd do it anyway. Instead, Molly thanked her again and shut the door behind her.

Strangely enough, getting back to work on her paper proved easier than she expected. She didn't stop to ponder the whys of it; just worked diligently through the rest of the afternoon until the smell of chicken rising from downstairs alerted her that it was time for dinner. She'd not only outlined the paper, but had completed the initial draft. All in all, a fair day's work.

Taking a bottle of wine she'd picked up during her last trip to the shops, she padded downstairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat and happily enjoyed a dinner of roast chicken, peas and carrots, and boiled potatoes. Afterwards, she found herself persuaded to indulge in a bowl of apple cobbler and the first episode of _Game of Thrones_.

By the end of the second episode, Mrs. Hudson was yawning and claiming a need to get to bed. Molly took the remaining series discs upstairs and spent the rest of the evening watching them, as engrossed by the programme as Mrs. Hudson claimed to be. By eleven, she was so tired she took herself off to her bedroom, well aware that sleep would not be eluding her tonight.

_OK_, she thought as she climbed into bed. _Maybe the day wasn't as bad as I thought it would be._

—**RE—**

When Sherlock returned home exhausted and frustrated, it was late in the evening. As tired as he was, there was no rest on his horizon. There was too much to be done. John followed in his wake, having been called to the case the previous evening when Sherlock ran into his first dead end.

Sherlock immediately removed his coat and, after tossing it over a nearby chair, dashed over to his laptop. John collapsed on the sofa with a wearied groan.

"There has to be more to the note," Sherlock murmured to himself. "What are you missing?"

He held out a copy to himself, his eyes roving over the words, words he'd memorized already. Was it a code of some sort? No. He was sure of it. No witnesses. He'd searched the boy's room, followed up on the few leads he could glean there. It was like the teen had simply walked off by himself. Sherlock had talked to nearly everyone the boy knew or had come into contact with in the last two weeks. But there was nothing concrete on which to build a deduction. Now, all he was left with was this note and the knowledge that by noon, another body part would likely be delivered to go along with the thumb and toe they'd already received if the parents didn't pay the millions the ransom demanded.

With a grunt, John clambered from the sofa and shuffled into the kitchen. "Do you have any food? Please tell me there's food in here. I'm starving." This was followed by a moment of silence, the sound of the fridge opening, and then, "Eureka! Bless you, Molly Hooper!"

Hearing Molly's name made Sherlock glance up. He'd all but forgotten she was here. He looked around, almost expecting to see her sitting in her usual spot on the sofa. But she wasn't there. A quick look at his watch confirmed why. It was half three in the morning. She was asleep. His eyes went to his closed bedroom door where she doubtless was right now. A flash of memory of her supple body wrapped around his hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. This brought with it the unwelcome memory of how he'd left her … and things between them. Uncomfortable didn't begin to describe it. He wondered if she was upset and what he might have to do to make her not that way. There was a reason he'd always believed relationships weren't his area … because they weren't. Still, he'd told Molly he would try and he would … eventually.

"Distraction," he muttered to himself, shunting the mental image of his pathologist away. He would deal with her later. "Much later."

"What was that?" John asked returning to the lounge with a plate of sandwiches and a satisfied grin.

"Nothing. If you're done cleaning out my fridge, we do have a case that needs our attention."

"You have any new leads?"

Sherlock grunted and plopped into his chair.

"Yeah, I didn't think so," John said, taking his usual chair. He held out the plate. "Sandwich?"

Sherlock grimaced and rolled his eyes. He ignored his friend and entered his mind palace, intent on going over the case details one more time. Clearly, there was something he'd missed. John said something, but he ignored it.

He again became aware of his surroundings some time later. Looking about, he found John dozing in his chair, the plate now empty and looking ready to fall out his lap at any moment. Sherlock rose, rescuing the plate before it fell and placing it on one of the side tables. Moving towards the window, he stared down at the empty street below. The sky had lightened to a steely grey, an indication that dawn was fast on its way. His frustration mounted as he knew nothing more now than when he'd returned home. At times like this, a cigarette was just the thing to sharpen his focus. But he knew the second he lit up he would wake John and have to hear a litany of reasons why smoking was bad for him. There was also the inevitable follow up where he'd quit and have to suffer the vicious withdrawals and cravings clawing at him day and night. They never truly left him, but the longer he went without giving in to the temptation of a cigarette, the easier it was to deal with them.

"Nicotine patches. I have some. Where are they?" He moved over to his desk and started rifling through the papers there. They were free of dust and stacked neatly, which told him Mrs. Hudson had been by to clean again. "Does that woman not realize I have a system? How does she expect me to find anything if she is always moving everything around?"

His frustration grew steadily worse, fraying his already thin patience. Sherlock started tossing files to the ground, clearing the desk of them in one fell swoop. _No patches. Damn._ Books followed and then he moved on to searching frantically through the drawers of his desk.

"I had Mrs. Hudson get rid of them."

That made Sherlock pause. He looked up at his now-roused partner. "Pardon?"

John wiped at the sleep in his eyes, a frown on his face. "You heard me. You're going to get nicotine poisoning if you keep using those patches the way you do."

That shattered the last of Sherlock's calm demeanor. He slammed the drawer he'd had open and snapped, "If I find myself in need a mother, John Watson, I'll call her."

"Keep your voice down. People are trying to sleep."

"Maybe you should have thought about that before you threw away something which wasn't yours," Sherlock shot back. He thrust a pointed finger at the door. "Go buy me some more."

"No. You don't need them."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, deciding to use a different strategy. "A boy's life hangs in the balance."

"No."

"You're a heartless man, Dr. Watson."

"And you're a right git if you think I'm going to fall for so obvious a guilt trip."

Sherlock immediately headed for the door, tired of arguing. He'd get them himself. John's next words, however, stopped him abruptly.

"No one in a ten-block radius is going to sell you any. Remember? You bribed them not to."

"That was years ago."

"You're right." John said with a wide smile. "I bribe them now."

Sherlock glared at him long and hard, contemplating fifty ways—in descending order of painfulness—that he could kill this man. John, seemingly not understanding the danger he was in, shuffled to his feet with a loud and lusty yawn.

He looked down at his watch. "I have to be at work in a few hours. I'm going to get some sleep while I can."

Sherlock was about to shrug and offer creatively crude suggestions on where John could hie himself off to with great haste when he noticed where the man in question was headed.

_Oh, shit. Molly!_

"Where are you going?"

Blearily, John turned to look at him. "I just told you. I'm going to sleep for a bit. There's no use for me to go home at this point. I'd just have to turn around by the time I got there. I'll text Mary when I wake to see if she can bring me some fresh clothes."

"No, I mean why are you going into _my_ bedroom?"

John seemed confused. "Where else can I sleep? Molly's in my old room upstairs. Would you have me stretch out on Mrs. Hudson's settee? Not going to happen. And I'm certainly not going to try to sleep on your sofa with you out here acting like a prat." He turned back to the door.

"You can't sleep in there!"

John sighed, long, hard, and loud. He didn't bother to look back to Sherlock before he said, "And why is that?"

Sherlock scrambled for an excuse and came up empty handed. Telling the truth wasn't an option since he wasn't ready to answer questions about him and Molly yet. Especially since he didn't exactly know the answers to those questions, and he was quite sure John was probably going to end up wanting to punch him at some point during the explanation.

"Look, your highness," John said, "I don't care if this is your bedroom. You've jerked me around for the last two days, and I need to get some rest before I go to work where I have to concentrate so I don't kill anyone."

"Oh please. You're a GP! Your patients are never that serious."

"Bite me, Sherl," he said, evoking that infernal nickname Janine always used to call him. John began to open the door.

Sherlock ran over, trying to wedge himself between the doctor and the door and praying their argument hadn't woken Molly. "I'm going to sleep in there! You can sleep on the sofa."

"You never sleep while we're on a case."

"It's been days. I'm exhausted." Sherlock gave what he hope wasn't too big an artificial yawn.

Something about this made John cross his arms over his chest and eye him suspiciously. "Who's in there, Sherlock?"

"No one." _Damn. Too fast. No way that's believable._

John rolled his eyes and shoved past him.

"No, John! Wait—"

But the door was open and the light was on before another full minute past. Sherlock expected to hear a shout from either John or Molly, but there was nothing. He finally looked inside to find an unoccupied bedroom and a made bed. He glanced around, unsure why he was finding an unoccupied bedroom and a made bed. _What?_ _Where is Molly? _

"You're getting weird in your old age. Well, weird_er_." John shook his head in tired dismay. "I don't care if you are exhausted, Sherlock. I'm sleeping in here. You can sleep next to me if you like."

That got Sherlock's attention. Those were words he'd never thought to hear the doctor say, especially considering how much he ranted whenever the tabloids implied they were lovers. "Pardon?"

"I'm too knackered to argue with you." He toed off his shoes, tossed his jacket on the floor, and climbed into the bed. "Just stay on your side of the bed, and I'll stay on mine."

"Umm … no, thank you," Sherlock said. "I think I'll just … rest on the sofa."

John grumbled about needing "cuddles with Mary," but Sherlock ignored this as he shut off the light and closed the door behind him. He rested on the door, trying to figure everything out. Then, he moved. He looked around the flat. Molly was clearly still here. The kitchen table had her things on it. Intent on finding her, he hurried up to the second bedroom.

He shouldn't have been surprised to find her asleep there, but he was. The dawn light shining in from the window gave him just enough light to see her. Molly was sprawled across the middle of the bed on her stomach, her sleeping face turned towards him in peaceful repose and her brown hair fanned out on the pillow behind her. She was wearing one of her nightgowns. The white, long-sleeved, cotton and lace one that fell to her ankles and made her look like an old-fashioned virginal spinster from the late nineteenth century. He'd pointed that out when she'd worn it during one of the times he'd needed to use her flat as a bolt hole. As he remembered it, she'd shrugged, claimed it was comfortable, and had stormed off to sleep in the guest bedroom as she usually did whenever he came over.

Strangely enough, Molly looked nothing like a virginal spinster now. With the duvet kicked to the edge of the bed, the gown had ridden up, giving him an eyeful of long, lithe legs and a peek at pale blue knickers stretched over her curved backside. His body tightened and all but thrummed at the sight. He gripped the door jamb so he wouldn't give in to the ferocious longing he had to go to her. This craving was stronger than any drug or cigarette had ever been, and left him overwhelmed. Sherlock wanted to lie next to her, to wake her with kisses, to bury himself in the softness of her welcoming form again and again until he could think no more.

"Distraction," he hissed. "Get a hold on yourself, man." Before he could do something stupid, he fled her bedroom and quickly shut the door behind him. Resting against it, he panted with his eyes shut. This was madness. _No other explanation. _He had a case to solve and here he was acting like a horny teenager with his first woman. _No._

There was only one thing to be done. Shoving away from the door, he returned to the lounge. He stopped only long enough to reclaim his coat, and he was taking the stairs down two at a time. It wasn't until he made it to the cool air outside that any relief came his way. He took a deep breath as he wrapped his coat around himself, feeling some small semblance of sanity returning.

But just as he was calming, something made him look up to the window he knew was hers. Her light had come on. Common sense told him it was nothing more than her getting up so she could get ready for work, but common sense had no place in the panic that overwhelmed him. He felt trapped, like any moment she was going to come for him. He didn't trust his actions if he saw her. Not now. Not yet.

So, after failing hail a passing cab, Sherlock Holmes ran from 221B Baker Street.


	26. Control, Panic, And Temptation

**A/N: Warning: Sexual content ahead!**

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter Twenty-Six: Control, Panic, And Temptation<strong>

Sherlock had it all well in hand now. It had taken two packs of cigarettes and the successful solving of three cases before he felt confident about that. When he was once again feeling in control of himself, he wasn't sure where all the yearning nonsense and resulting alarm had come from. Probably something to do with lack of sleep. It had been days since he'd last rested, after all. Even his mind was susceptible to weakness once he'd reached his limits. Whatever the cause, he knew running was never the answer. It was the primary lesson one learned when one had a brother like Mycroft. No, when dealing with something that provokes fear or panic, the best thing to do was to take control of the situation by facing it head on, finding the chink in its armor, and disposing of it accordingly.

"You're back." Molly glanced up from where she sat reading on the sofa as he entered the flat.

As she had only stated the obvious, a response wasn't warranted. Something about hearing her voice gave him a brief resurgence of the alarm, but he promptly suppressed it. He was in control. Molly Hooper was a simple creature—honest, useful, biddable, hardworking and sometimes boring. Never, ever should she be a cause for alarm. In fact, if his life were a chessboard, he would be the queen and Molly would be nothing more than a pawn awaiting his next command.

So, Sherlock ignored her as he removed his coat and went into his bedroom to put it away. The effects of so many days in the same clothes motivated him into a bath. Once he was refreshed, he had planned to fall into his bed for a long slumber, but his empty stomach reminded him of its priority.

When he went into the lounge, food awaited him. A tall glass of milk and a plate filled with two sandwiches stacked neatly beside a steaming bowl of what looked to be tomato soup had been placed on the side table next to his chair. He looked to Molly, but her face was hidden behind a massive tome entitled _A Game of Thrones._ He smiled to himself. Yep, docile old Molly. Always getting him what was needed even if he didn't overtly request it. Satisfied with himself, he claimed his seat and tucked into the fare like the starving man he was.

It wasn't until Sherlock was finished that he bothered to look at her again. Her continued silence was odd. He'd expected her to demand to know where he'd been or, at the very least, harp at him for details regarding the kidnapping case. He'd been prepared for that. After all, Molly usually liked hearing about his cases. Sherlock had also assumed she'd want some explanation regarding his whereabouts now that she had this new role in his life. He hadn't talked to her in days, hadn't even bothered to text. Females, in his experience, didn't like that. Hell, _John_ didn't like that. Or if nothing else, Molly would surely want to deconstruct, define, and categorize every element of their last encounter together. Isn't that what women in relationships did?

But Molly didn't do any of that. She remained focused on her book as if she hadn't a care in the world, as if he weren't even there. In fact, had she not spoken to him when he first arrived and obviously prepared the dinner for him, it might be easy to assume she wasn't aware of his presence at all. _Bizarre._ As much as his body was begging for rest, the curiosity Sherlock had behind Molly's behavior kept him rooted to his seat.

Was she angry? He knew people's response to anger usually involved the silent treatment. It was a tactic John had employed on him many times with limited success. Even Mrs. Hudson and Molly had done it to him when he'd gotten too exasperated at them and made some cutting remark. But as he hadn't done any such thing to her recently, Sherlock couldn't presume why he should apologize.

He observed her carefully, trying to denote further signs of held-in fury. If Molly planned to tear into him, he wanted to be prepared. Honestly, he welcomed her anger. It would feel good to vent some of the frustration he felt at her, where it belonged. He hated that she had brought about such weakness in him. Little Molly Hooper? _Ridiculous._

But no matter how diligently he searched, there were no signs to be found. Molly was relaxed in her posture, a light smile on her face as if she were enjoying her book. She was leaning back against the sofa with a fluffy pink and white throw decorated with pictures of kittens tucked around her folded legs and lower torso. She wore a thin white robe with lace etched along the long sleeves and whimsical, baby pink ribbons tied neatly at her wrists. The high lace collar of the robe had a broader pink ribbon tied in an artful bow about her neck. The collar covered her neck and brushed the edges of her jaw. Except for her hands and face, every inch of Molly was covered. Maiden, elderly aunts the world over would have approved of such a garment.

Which is why the wave of arousal that hit him took him somewhat by surprise. He didn't panic this time. He was through with panic. It got him nowhere. Molly Hooper was not going to frighten him away from his own flat—especially not by simply wearing a nightgown that Queen Victoria had probably once owned a version of. He was in control, not her with those seemingly nonstop attempts to tempt him.

Except, she wasn't trying to tempt him. Her face was free of makeup, and her hair was piled atop her head in some kind of muddled knot. Hardly the guise of woman on the prowl. More to the point, she seemed completely oblivious of his presence. This made him a little less curious and a lot more frustrated.

Molly found him attractive. Sherlock knew this. His eyes, his dark features and pale, angular face, his height, his fit body, his neck and even the curls in his hair. She liked them all. On more than one occasion, he'd conducted little experiments. In addition to reacting to certain shirts he wore, she seemed to prefer when his hair either in wild disarray or slicked back from his head. When he took the time to conform his locks into some semblance of mild order, her reactions lessened. Her responses had become muted when he'd first returned to London, leading him to assume her feelings for him had irrevocably ceased. But he'd noticed the signs again at John's wedding when she saw him enter the church to take his place beside the bridegroom. At the time, he'd dismissed it as nothing more than a fleeting effect. Many women—_and some men_—found him attractive when he was formally attired. He cut quite the dashing figure. It was a mere consequence of the biology that had formed him thus, a consequence he'd found useful on more than one occasion. Now, dressed as he was in a grey silk pyjama bottoms topped with a close-fitting, white t-shirt with his hair slicked back from his bath, he knew she should be deeply aroused.

At the moment, however, the only thing that had garnered the slightest bit of interest in her was that damn book. His frustration grew, pushing him to speak. "What is that you're reading? More improbable zombie nonsense?"

"No." Her eyes remained on the page. "It's called _A Game of Thrones_. It's the first book in a series called _A Song of Ice and Fire_." She flipped a page. "That reminds me. I finished the _Zombie Samurai_ trilogy. I left the last novel on the kitchen table if you'd like to read it."

"Why would I want to do that?" He shot back.

Molly didn't take the bait he'd so conveniently offered. She merely shrugged. "Up to you."

The frustration increased. "What's this _Game of Thrones_ about?" he asked, taking in various details from the cover to make his deduction. "A comprehensive history of the English crown? If you wish to delve into something so mind-numbingly dull, you can always read John's blog."

"John's blogs aren't boring. They're about you. Well, your adventures together."

It was his turn to shrug. "He can make anything dull. His writing is atrocious. It's a wonder anyone endeavors to read it."

But just when he thought he had at last found a way to get her annoyed, she switched up on him.

"Well, this book is anything but boring. While the author has indeed been influenced by the chronicles of medieval royal politics both within this country and those in Europe, this story is complete fiction. He has even created his own version of Earth which experiences seasons differently than we do. For example, their summers or winters can last decades without abatement."

He found himself unwillingly intrigued. "And what is the plot?"

"It's too complicated to quickly explain. There are a lot of characters and a surplus of backstory surrounding those characters and their families which must be absorbed before you can truly understand and appreciate what is going on."

"Sounds too tedious and needlessly complicated to be enjoyable. I wonder why you would bother to waste your time."

She shrugged again. "Taking the time and patience to truly understand that which is overly complicated and superficially tedious can prove highly rewarding in the long run."

Sherlock scoffed. "Name one example of that ever proving true."

"You."

He had her attention now. She was looking right at him. If they'd been playing chess, she would have shouted "Check!" after a move like that.

Once again, Sherlock found himself aroused by Molly. Only this time, it had nothing to do with the overly prim outfit she was wearing. It was her wit. It also brought his frustration to dizzying heights. He straightened in his chair, angling towards her. Fisting on hand, he rested his chin on it as he inclined forward and, in blatant challenge, said, "You find _me_ tedious?"

She shook her head and looked away. Something about hitting her with the full force of his attention made her do that. It had been a while since it had worked on her, and but he used the method to its fullest effect. He wanted her to squirm. It would be good for her to remember who held the power here, not only in their relationship, but in everything. Sherlock had never considered himself a control freak—No, that was Mycroft's area—but when it came to these last few days, he realized having control at all times was the only way for this _thing_ with Molly to work. It was only those times when he allowed his control to relax that she seeped in—No, that the _panic_ seeped it. Molly Hooper would _never_ seep into anything where he was concerned.

"Did you solve the case?" she murmured, fingering the sleeve of her robe.

"Yes."

"And?"

She didn't look at him, but the tinge of frustration he heard in her tone made him smile. At least he wasn't the only one feeling that. "And it was the boy's tutor. Older woman in her thirties. She stopped tutoring him weeks ago; so I missed her in my initial round of interviews. No one thought to tell me about her until I hacked into his emails. He was careful to delete most of his correspondence with her, but not _all_."

Her gaze shot up. "Why—"

Anticipating her question, he said, "The boy was in on it. She'd taken him as her lover. The scheme, of course, was to get the ransom money and run away together."

"But the body parts—"

"Her idea. He went along with it because he_ loved_ her." Sherlock shook his head in disgust. "She told him it would demonstrate his commitment to their relationship. As she planned to murder him the second the money was in her hands, he would have done better to demand a few demonstrations of _her_ affections first.

"I found them, of course. It was simple work once I realized who was behind it. I'm sure John will have the full details blogged by week's end—even though he missed the big finale by going to _work_." He rolled his eyes. "In any case, I also uncovered a theft by the upstairs maid. Lestrade and the parents were quite thrilled by my performance. As the father is a high political official, there was even a threat of having me knighted. Until," he could help the grin that came to his lips, "I informed the wife that her husband was cheating on her with her brother. I was invited to leave then."

Molly gave a snort of humor and smiled. He looked at her, intensely. The longer he looked, the sooner all signs of mirth left her features. Then, just as he was about to command her to come to him, she moved. At first, he was startled, but then he realized she wasn't coming to him at all.

She put down her book, removed the throw, and got to her feet. When she stood, he got a flash of ankle before the gown and robe fell to her feet, so long they even covered her bare toes. He shot a peek at her, trying to discern if she'd done this to purposefully entice him. But she didn't even glance his way.

As passed him, she moved to take his dirty dishes. He caught her hand, looking up at her as she stilled. "Running away?"

"From what?" she asked.

The blush was still there, but that was the only sign that she was at all affected. Her brown eyes met his gaze and held it. Slowly, he brushed the lace back until her wrist was revealed. Then, he brought it up to his mouth, running the delicate skin back and forth over his lower lip. The light fragrance of lavender—something he was beginning to associate solely with her—was there. His tongue came out, delivering a quick lick.

Molly shivered. He smiled as he felt her pulse scatter and pick up. Blinking a few times, she seemed to come back to herself. As his hold on her was gentle at best, she easily slipped from it, taking the dishes and heading into the kitchen. "Do you want anything else?"

Sherlock didn't respond right away. Instead, he waited until she returned to the lounge and resumed her position on the sofa, her feet and ankles tucked back under her and hidden from his view by the throw. He was beginning to hate that throw. Sherlock got to his feet and, in one swift movement, claimed the space next to her. He threw his arm on the back of the sofa behind her and leaned in next to her, deliberately invading every ounce of her personal space he could. Running his nose along her collar, he inhaled. The lavender smell was deeper here, making him heady. Molly stiffened, telling him he wasn't the only one affected.

"Ask me again," he hoarsely whispered.

"Ask you what?" Her fingers gripped the book in her lap tightly.

His hand reached over to take the book, pushing it away from her grasp and onto the floor, where it landed with a heavy _thump_. "Ask me if I want anything else."

She inhaled, her breath wobbly and then said the last thing he was expecting, "When was the last time you slept?"

Sherlock pulled back at that. "What does it matter?"

She turned to look at him, a frown tugging at her lips. "I mean it, Sherlock. When was the last time you had adequate rest?"

Was she implying something by asking him this? Did she not want him as he did her? The signs indicated otherwise, but something in her tone said this was the case. He would need to do further tests, though, to be sure. "What day is it?"

"Monday evening."

"I last slept on Friday night. I'll be fine." He moved in again, reaching for the pink bow tied around her throat. He tugged it free. She didn't stop him. No, Molly just sat there as he pulled the collar of the robe away, baring her throat.

She gave a small sigh. "You're too tired for this. You should rest. You have dark circles under your eyes."

Sherlock wasn't going to be denied. He was in charge here. "There's no such thing as too tired for this." He leaned in, pressing kisses as he went. She shuddered and moved to give him better access. He smiled to himself and continued his exploration. His hand gently cradled her head as he moved down her neck and over her clavicle, pushing away cotton and lace as he went.

"You wore this gown to bed last night, Molly."

She jumped away from him then, edging closer to the other side of the sofa. Her hands trembling as she tried to pull her robe back around her. "And how do you know that?"

Sherlock slipped his hands under the large throw covering her lower body. He shoved it into the floor and the heat she'd been stockpiling underneath hit him. Like the predator cornering prey, he closed in on her, taking up all the space she'd put between them. "How do I know everything? For example, I know it's been two days since I had you. I know you want me as badly as I do you. I know you showered before I got here, hoping I would be home tonight. I know you thought of me while you bathed, while you put on your lotion, while you took your birth control pill. I know you've thought of this every moment since I've been away, wondering if it was just a dream or a mistake or if I'd ever touch you again. I know if I don't have you soon I'm going to explode with wanting you."

Her breathing grew shaky once more, giving him the confidence to lean in until his face was mere inches away from hers. "Are you going to deny me, Molly?"

"No."

"Good."

He kissed her then. She returned the kiss wholeheartedly, wrapping both arms around his neck. Sherlock groaned, pulling her onto his lap. She came willingly, straddling him. His hands found her calves and marveling in the heat he felt in her silky limbs, he stroked up and over her knees. Her robe and gown parted like a sea of milk, revealing more feminine flesh for his touch. Molly's hands were in his hair, tugging on the strands impatiently as she kissed him. She ground down on him, rubbing herself delightfully against his hardening penis.

Sherlock moved aside the ribbons from the collar of her robe, jerking the garment off her and tossing it away. Only the thin material of the gown stood between him and what he sought. He rooted under the hem of her dress, moved up until he was cupping her bare breasts. _Jesus, she's not wearing a bra. _He'd known she wasn't, but feeling the proof in his hands made him want to send appreciation to a deity he'd didn't believe in.

He caressed her breasts, growing more frustrated by the gown which kept him from taking them into his mouth. The frock was so tight around her arms and shoulders, he knew he couldn't take it off as rapidly as he had the robe. He broke the kiss with Molly and shifted, grabbing hold of her hips. With a grunt, he stood, taking her with him.

Molly let out a little squeal and grasped his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his waist. With a slight wobble and some adjustment, he balanced her form in his grip and moved towards his bedroom. Molly was a sturdy woman, and fatigue had drained quite a bit of his strength. But Sherlock was determined. All too soon, he laid her across his bed. Then, he knelt down over her, his hands going to the long row of petite, pearl buttons running down the gown. His fingers fumbled, trying to push the pearls through the holes. They didn't go easily. When he only managed to get two undone in the range of several minutes, he looked down at her and said, "How much do you like this thing you're wearing?"

She grinned up at her, her hands playing with the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. "Why?"

_Now she tries to entice me?_ "Because I'm three seconds from ripping it off you, woman."

"My mother gave it to me."

He groaned, knowing how much she loved both of her deceased parents, and made do with shoving the nightgown that had been the source of so much torture up to gather about her neck. Her breasts thrust up at him. _Hello, old friends._ He leaned over and took one in his mouth. Molly moaned and jerked up against him. After taking his fill of one breast, he moved on to the other as his hands explored the waistband of her white cotton knickers. With these, he met no resistance as he yanked them down her hips and off.

The second she was free, Molly opened her legs to him. The wetness of her core glistened in the overhead light, demonstrating how much she'd desired him all along. Had this all been some seductive game to her? Some way to increase his fervor? If so, it had worked. He was almost blind in his need for her. Sherlock sank between her thighs gratefully. The craving he'd experienced before was a mere shadow of what he felt now. He freed himself from his trousers, and without preamble, he thrust into her welcoming heat.

Her legs wrapped around his hips as he rocked against her again and again. Molly pulled him down, kissing him, holding him, urging him, a willing tool ready for his use. But it wasn't good enough. Sherlock wanted more. He wanted her bowing against him, straining in search of her own gratification, but his need was too great and he'd fought against it for too long. With a few valiant thrusts, the pleasure rushed upon him and he collapsed onto her in exhausted ecstasy. He wanted to move, but his remaining strength was depleted. Molly didn't seem to mind the weight. Instead, she pressed kisses against his sweaty temple, caressed his shoulders, and murmured nonsensical praise in his ear. All were more comforting than he would ever admit.

Finally, he mustered a last bit of strength, rolled from her, and collapsed on the other side of the bed. It didn't matter that he was still half dressed, his head wasn't on a pillow, or that he wasn't lying in his usual position. Sherlock knew he'd be unable to move again until after several hours of rest.

Molly, however, did not suffer this problem.

It took every ounce of concentration he had to open one eye when he felt her leave the bed. He wanted to call to her, to find out where she thought she was going, but he couldn't.

She returned moments later with her throw. This she tossed over him, taking the time to make sure his feet were covered. As it was able to cover his tall form, he realized the blanket was bigger than he'd assumed it was. Molly then continued on, moving his head and shoving a pillow under it. Finally, with a tender kiss pressed against his forehead, she wished him pleasant rest and left him. She even switched off the lights and shut the door behind her.

Exhaustion held him prisoner. But with the last bit of brainpower he had, Sherlock Holmes grunted into his pillow as the truth hit him. If there was control to be wielded in his relationship with Molly Hooper, it was she who'd exert it. He was and would always be at her mercy. If their relationship were a chessboard, she was the queen and he was nothing more than a knight in her service.

Somehow, even as he was drifting off, this knowledge did not cause him panic.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This is the last time I will warn about the coming mature content. I don't like to ruin the surprise with spoilers, and it feels like that's what I am doing. So, if you don't like that, skim those parts and move on because I can promise that there won't just be chapters devoted to sex without furthering the plot. In fact, you will never know when either sex or plot is going to happen from here on out. Happy reading!**


	27. There's Something About Mary

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: There's Something About Mary**

"Molly, there you are!"

With a lurch of shock, the specialist registrar shot up from the specimens she was cataloguing. She'd been expecting Sherlock to come bursting in on her all morning. He hadn't seemed terribly pleased that she'd put him to bed last night. She'd known it wouldn't take him long to figure out he'd been slightly manipulated to get there. But as he'd been so visibly knackered and she was afraid of what he might say with the mood he was in, she'd had little choice in the matter. Things were fragile between them, and they needed to talk. This was true. But not with him in that shape. Not then.

She'd spent two nerve-wracking hours in the mortuary, and Sherlock never made an appearance. Whether that was in some way correlated to the current depth of his anger, she didn't know. Right now, she didn't want to even think about it. As she was aware she'd have to deal with him when she returned to the flat, Molly had decided to put him out of her mind and get to work.

Having Mary Watson show up in the morgue, however, was quite unexpected.

"H-h-hello," Molly returned, removing her latex gloves and walking over to greet the blonde. "Is there a problem with John or Sherlock?"

"No, they're fine. I just thought I'd pop in for a visit."

"If you'd let me know you were coming, I could've gone out to meet you."

Mary waved off this notion, peering around with some interest. "Nice place you have here. Very … _quiet_."

"Thanks." Molly was well aware that her workplace was the type most people ran from. "Quiet" was actually a polite adjective to use. Still, one thing was bothering her. "How did you get past security?"

Sherlock was the only one who'd been able to successfully do that, and that usually involved a fair amount of subterfuge. Now, of course, he didn't need to bother as he had full access.

"There wasn't anyone at the desk; so I just walked through." Mary shrugged as she kept looking around. Then, her curiosity apparently sated, she turned on Molly with a beguiling smile. "You know, I've been thinking. A woman's life needs a little variety beyond her husband and child—especially when she has a husband who likes to chase down murderers with London's only consulting detective. I used to have more friends than I could count, but now Janine has moved out of the city, Teresa's focused on a promotion at her job, and all of my male friends are suddenly too busy to get together."

Mary frowned as she said this, tapping a finger against her lower lip as if something had just occurred to her. "It's very peculiar. They started getting busy right about the time we were finalizing plans for the wedding … I wonder …" She broke off when she noticed Molly watching her. With a quick shake of her head, the smile returned. "Well, never mind that. I figured since you're living with Sherlock—which I hope means we'll be seeing each other more often—and you're my daughter's favorite aunt—"

"What about John's sister?"

"Oh, that one's got too many issues to be anyone's favorite anything," Mary said. "In any case, I thought you and I might spend some time together and get better acquainted. Who knows? We might become best friends!"

Everything slowed down as Molly gaped at Mary. Never in her life had anyone ever come up to her and said such a thing. Her first reflex was to look behind her because surely Mary must have been talking to someone else. Even in primary school when all the other girls were coupling up and declaring their undying friendship forever devotions, Molly had always been the one deemed too quiet, too boyish and interested in the wrong things, or too "weird" to be bothered with. The first few times she'd faced such rejection, she'd been devastated. But always a resilient sort, Molly didn't let such notions bother her for long. After all, the boys weren't nearly as fastidious when it came to choosing a mate to play with. As long as she could run and climb trees with the best of them, didn't cry when she got dirty, and didn't try to talk their ears off about "girl nonsense," they seemed to enjoy her company. In fact, as she could do many of the "boy" things better than they could, they frequently sought her out to teach them.

As she grew, she still observed the girls, fascinated and yearning for the intimacies and secrets that only came from feminine companionship. Trying on makeup, new hair styles, and fancy clothes; talking nonstop about boys and celebrity infatuations; overdosing on chocolate and ice cream; and all night pyjama parties were all things she'd ached to experience. But the older she got, the further away those girls and those dreams seemed to get until Molly just stopped trying to bridge the gap. She was different. And as much as they couldn't seem to accept her for how she was, she liked herself just fine. Her friends—all guys—liked her as well. In fact, it was from these guys that she learned as much as she knew about the opposite sex. More so, she was sure, than most women knew.

When she met Meena in uni was when she'd gotten her first experiences in this area. It had been wonderful. Even all these many years later, Meena was still the only real female friend she had. Unless, that is, one counted Mrs. Hudson or the nurse on the third floor who sometimes chatted her up about weekend plans whenever they happened to meet at the vending machine.

It wasn't until Molly noticed Mary's mouth was moving that she realized John's wife was still talking. _Oh, shit. _

"—you wanted to join me for a bite. There's a place I've been told that's not too far from here which happens to have the best filet around. Are you up for it?"

If Mary had noticed Molly's mind had wandered, she didn't let on. The blonde's smile never wavered, but the way her eyes swept over Molly were so piercing, so almost intrusive that it was reminiscent of Sherlock. _What doesn't remind you of him these days?_ It immediately put Molly on guard, which was ridiculous. _Calm down. Don't ruin this._

Flashing a return smile, Molly said, "Uh, sure. That sounds loads better than the sandwich, Quavers, and yogurt I brought with me." _She doesn't care about your stupid lunch. Just get on with it already!_ "Let me just retrieve my things from my office. Do you want to meet me out front?"

_No, idiot, she wants to remain in a cold room full of corpses._

"Absolutely," Mary said.

"Umm … Good."

_Really? That's all you can think to say?_

Mary, however, didn't seem to mind. She just stood there patiently smiling until Molly remembered she actually needed to move to go to her office and shot off with a blurted goodbye. Ten minutes later, Molly met her out by the security desk, which was populated by the usual guard, Randy and a newer guy she'd not met before. Something about the new man reminded her of the detail Mycroft had following her at all times because of Moriarty. She realized with all of the things going on with Sherlock, she hadn't given the people following her much thought. Molly waved at Randy as she passed and decided to go through a list of dos and don'ts for lunch in her head as she followed her new friend out of St. Bart's.

_Do let her do most of the talking. Women like to do most of the talking._

_If the conversation lulls, do ask lots of questions about her so she can do most of the talking._

_Don't talk about the morgue, dead bodies or the incredibly interesting tumor you found in Mr. Peters' liver—this especially goes for what you found _inside_ the tumor. (Save that for Sherlock when you get home. You may need a distraction if he's too angry.)_

_Do keep your answers to any questions she asks brief and concise. You don't want her thinking you're one of those people who make everything about themselves._

_Do try to be funny and kind, and, for God's sake, mind your manners! _

Soon, the two were safely ensconced at the restaurant called The Cod Swallop. It was a bit early for lunch; so the restaurant wasn't as full as it might have otherwise been. Mary declined the first table they were shown, which was in the front of some large windows. As Molly had never seen anyone decline a table before, she meekly followed along to the one Mary chose in a secluded corner marked by expensive wood paneling on two sides. When Molly went to take a seat that would have put her facing the diners, Mary asked her to switch. "You don't mind, do you? I like to look around."

Molly didn't mind; so she happily consented. Her eyes caught briefly on the gilt-framed portrait hanging above Mary's head. A blonde woman with long, wavy hair stared into a mirror. She was buxom and beautiful in a renaissance type of way, but her reflection showed another woman entirely. This one plain and somber and afraid.

_Pay attention to your companion, not the artwork, you ninny_. The waiter approached the table, bearing water glasses and menus. As they both perused the list of selections, the silence at the table bothered Molly so she asked, "Where's little Abby?"

"I got a sitter for her."

"Oh, that's nice."

Another awkward silence followed. It felt so loud to Molly that words on the menu seemed to swim before her eyes. "Are you still breastfeeding?" The second the question came out of her mouth, she wanted to recall it._ Is it appropriate to ask things like that?_

Mary didn't seem bothered. Exhaling happily, she put down her menu and said, "Yes, but I also give her bottled breast milk. It gives me a break and allows me to be away from her if I need a sitter. Besides, if I express the milk into a bottle, John gets the chance to feed her as well. He really likes that."

"She's a beautiful baby," Molly murmured, remembering the sweet cherub she'd held that night she and Sherlock had watched over her.

"Thank you, but as she looks more like her willfully handsome father, I can take no credit. I'm just glad she didn't get his penchant for bushy mustaches."

Molly grinned. "He shaved that off ages ago."

Mary rolled her eyes. "Only because his first wife came back. Sherlock apparently likes his doctors clean-shaven, or so John claims Sherlock said one time, but only after I tortured the information out of him."

Molly's grin continued until it occurred to her that _she_ was one of Sherlock's doctors. _Hmm …_

"What?" the older woman asked, clearly picking up on something.

"Nothing. So how are things? Are you looking forward to returning to the drudgery of work?"

"Well, I get to work with my husband; so it won't be too terrible." She gazed out at the slowly filling restaurant before looking back. "I will miss having the little one around all the time. Even though every item of clothing I own now smells like baby vomit, and I feel like I haven't had a truly adult conversation in weeks."

"Well, I'm proud to be your adult conversation," Molly said. "If you like, I'd be happy to babysit if you need some time away."

Mary's smile twisted into something like a smirk, but Molly couldn't be sure. It also looked a bit like a frown, making Molly wonder if her new friend was worried about Sherlock's thoughts on them babysitting again.

"Don't worry about Sherlock. He did fine last time Abby was there. Even sang and danced with her."

Mary's eyes widened in shock. "Really? I'd pay big money to have seen the great detective do that."

"It was lovely."

"What did he sing? Probably hummed Beethoven or Bach. He's too posh for his own good."

"Elton John, actually. 'Crocodile Rock.'"

Mary burst out laughing at this. "Please tell me you recorded that."

"No, of course not. Sherlock would have been mortified. I probably shouldn't have even told you that he did it in the first place."

"Oh please! You can always tell me anything. We're girlfriends now, aren't we?"

Molly smiled wider, feeling her shoulders relax. "Of course."

"Good, then as your friend, let me tell you not to waste golden opportunities when they come knocking. Record it next time, girl," Mary ordered. "We'll post it to the internet and make millions!"

They both laughed heartily at that. The waiter came over to take their orders, making a big push on the house wine which he claimed was "second to none." Both women declined. Mary ordered the filet while Molly settled on a pasta Bolognese.

Pleasant conversation continued until Molly had exhausted all the questions she had which would be considered polite. At a loss of what to say, she snatched one of the fresh-baked rolls the waiter had dropped off in a wire bread basket. Breaking it open and inhaling the deliciously yeasty smell, she slathered on a fair amount of butter.

"I appreciate a woman who isn't afraid to eat," Mary said, grabbing a roll for herself.

Molly halted her actions, wondering if she was doing something wrong. But as Mary had buttered her own roll and was even now devouring it with some gusto, she guessed not. She took a bite, enjoying the creamy, salty flavor that always accompanied real butter.

"So how are things going with you and Sherlock?"

Licking the excess butter from her lip, Molly said, "Fine."

"I'm surprised he's not driving you mad. John said living with him is akin to living in a lunatic asylum at times. Apparently, Sherlock liked to leave body parts all over the place, did secret experiments on John, and got so bored one time he shot up the wall."

"I make Sherlock keep the body parts in a marked bin in the fridge. If he doesn't return them there when he's done, I won't give him any new ones. He tried to experiment on me by putting something in my drink once, but I thankfully noticed before it was consumed. After I drugged his tea in retaliation, we agreed he wouldn't do that again. And as John took his gun with him when he moved out, Sherlock can't shoot anything." Molly winked. "So, it's not that bad you see."

Mary guffawed, clapping her hands together in glee. "Good for you, Molly Hooper. I always knew you weren't the carpet John seems to think you are."

Molly felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. "John thinks I'm a carpet?"

"He thinks you're too lenient with Sherlock, that you allow him to get away with murder and don't stand up for yourself enough. I told him he's wrong. There's more to your relationship with Sherlock than meets the eye. It was obvious the day I saw you slap him. No carpet of a woman would have done that."

"A-a-actually, I shouldn't have done that."

"Why not? He deserved it. You certainly got his attention more than John did."

"I … I just shouldn't have done that." _Not in front of everyone, at least._ Molly's only regret to that moment had only ever been the public nature of it. She'd never wanted to humiliate Sherlock by calling him out in front of his friends like that, but he'd been so out of control, so disconnected that she hadn't been able to stop herself.

Mary patted her hand. "It all worked out in the end. You and John got him back where he needed to be. You two are what keeps that man in line. Without you, he'd be lost. In fact, I have long suspected Sherlock is secretly in love with you."

The mere idea of that was laughable, but Molly kept silent. Instead, she looked down at her hands, surprised to see she'd unwillingly shredded her half-eaten roll. There were crumbs everywhere, and her fingers were now oily with smears of butter.

Cleaning up the mess, Molly decided to regain control of the conversation quickly. _Change the subject. Something innocuous._ Wiping her fingers on her napkin, she grabbed another roll, pasting a quick smile on her face. "Nice weather today, isn't it?"

"Lovely," Mary said. "So how long have you and Sherlock been sleeping together?"

Molly dropped her roll. "P-p-pardon?"

"Sleeping together? You know, as in having sex? How long have you and Sherlock been doing that?"

Molly's brain stalled. _How could she know that? There's no way she can know that. Oh my God, she knows that! Calm down. There is no way she knows. She's fishing. That's all._ Then, realizing that not having a response was the same as agreeing, she quickly said, "We're not."

Mary cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, staring at her long and hard.

Molly met her stare, closing down every bit of emotion she had to keep her expression blank. "Sherlock and I are friends. That's all."

Finally, Mary daintily wiped her mouth on her napkin. Then, she leaned forward. "You sure about that?"

"Yes."

The waiter returned with their entrees. Mary's dish of glazed filet with piped potatoes and braised asparagus was steaming as was Molly's bright red Bolognese topped with chopped, green parsley. But neither woman bothered to look down. Instead, their staring match continued even as the waiter started in again on the wonders of the house wine.

Finally, Mary straightened and dismissed the waiter, laying her napkin in her lap with great care. When she looked up at Molly, she smiled. "Sherlock was sleeping with a pink and white kitty blanket this morning. As immature as he can be at times, I can't imagine that's his."

"I covered him when he fell asleep last night. That's all."

"Is it?"

Molly nodded, forcing herself to focus on her food. She picked up her fork, intent on pretending to be as normal as possible.

"You're a very good liar, you know."

Mary had her attention with that one. "Excuse me?"

"Don't worry. It's a compliment I'm giving you. If I didn't know for a fact that you were lying, you would have fooled me. Most people can't fool me. Even Sherlock can't."

Molly almost dropped her fork in amazement, but managed to hold onto it. "How do you know I'm lying? I mean, why would I lie? Sherlock and I aren't sleeping together. It ridiculous. I'm his pathologist. That's all."

"What I find fascinating is that you immediately moved to defend the fact that he was sleeping with your blanket when you should have been asking how I knew he was using it in the first place."

A cold wave of fear washed over Molly. Mary had made an excellent point. _How could you be so stupid? _"How did you know about the blanket?"

Mary sliced into her filet, taking a bite before she answered. "Guess who I got as a sitter?"

Molly did drop her fork that time. "Sherlock? You got Sherlock to babysit Abby by himself? Are you mad?"

With a reckless grin, Mary shrugged. "It's fine. He kept my husband away the whole weekend. I figured he owed me."

"But … but … but …"

"You said yourself he was good with her last time. He even sang and danced."

"But—"

"Mrs. Hudson was put on alert. Don't worry. I told her to give him ten minutes and then check on them. No doubt Abby is presently in the landlady's kitchen having her bottle warmed and being loved within an inch of her life. Otherwise, my mobile would have gone off by now."

The image of how it must have looked when Mary got inside the flat sprang to Molly's mind. It would have been quiet. Sherlock, after not sleeping for several days, could easily slumber for sixteen hours or more. That would certainly explain why he hadn't made it down to the morgue. With Sherlock's bedroom door shut—something that never happened when he was up and about—it would have been easy to figure out where he was.

_Thank God I got my robe off the floor of the lounge last night. Lord knows what she'd of made of that._ "You actually went into Sherlock's bedroom?"

"So?"

"That's a private area."

"He should have thought about that before he came bursting into mine."

Molly closed her eyes, not even wanting to know what that meant. She was sure she could fill in the blanks. If Sherlock needed John, he wouldn't have let a little thing like privacy or a closed bedroom door stop him. She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. This was a mess, to be sure. But at the end of the day, the only evidence Mary had that anything was going on was circumstantial at best. As Molly knew she and Sherlock still had many things to work through, announcing their new relationship to their circle of friends was not going to happen for a while yet. Upon seeing him wrapped in the blanket, Mary would have brought her suspicions up to Sherlock. He had obviously found a way to circumvent those suspicions without lying. Otherwise, Mary would have already said Sherlock admitted to it. Since he'd gotten around Mary, Molly knew she could as well.

Opening her eyes, she looked at her dining companion. "Sherlock and I are flatmates and friends. That is all."

Mary giggled like a schoolgirl. "You really are good at that. It's no wonder Sherlock likes you so. You have many hidden depths and talents." She shook her head, taking another bite of her lunch. "I've always said it's the quiet ones you have to look out for."

"I'm not lying."

"Aren't you?" Mary's eyebrow quirked defiantly.

"You found him sleeping with my blanket, a blanket I freely admitted to covering him with because he fell asleep atop his covers after he came in last night."

"You went into his bedroom? That's a _private area_."

"I was worried about him. That's all."

"Uh huh," Mary said, mockingly.

"Did you find him naked?"

"What?"

That knocked the grin off her face. Molly bit her lip to stop her own smile. "Well?" she asked. "Did you?"

"No. He was in pyjamas."

"So," Molly said, swirling her pasta round and round with her fork. "You found a sleeping man in his own bed fully clothed in his pyjamas wrapped in my blanket and _that_ is your sole piece of evidence for proving that we're having sex?" She brought a fork full of pasta to her mouth. "Hardly conclusive, is it?"

Mary gazed down at her own plate, and Molly felt a well of triumph. But a few seconds later, John's wife glanced up, a beaming smirk on her face. "Oh, Molly, you are a treasure. You and I are going to be the best of friends. I just know it."

Molly frowned, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. _I just won, didn't I?_ "Umm … OK. Sure. Can we leave off this topic once and for all then?"

"Absolutely," Mary agreed, reaching for another roll. She broke open the bread and set about spreading on butter. "Of course, we'll need to discuss the pair of knickers I saw on Sherlock's dresser first. They were hanging off the end … like someone _tossed_ them there in the heat of the moment. Pretty damning evidence, I must say."

_Shit! I knew I missed something._ "You can't assume those are mine."

"Can't I?"

"Sherlock had a girlfriend before I moved in. One of your friends. Janine. Did you forget?" Molly asked, proud of herself for thinking so fast on her feet.

Mary seemed to contemplate this a moment. She took her time applying the butter, apparently intent on making sure each crevice of bread was covered before she responded. Finally, she said, "It's been months and months since those two went out. And even if I could assume that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't have cleaned in all that time—"

"She's not his housekeeper."

Mary chuckled. "Indeed. But even if Mrs. Hudson never cleaned Sherlock's room, I know for a fact that those knickers don't belong to Janine. Too many shopping trips together, I'm afraid. White cotton is not something she's ever going to be seen in—especially around Sherlock. No, Janine likes her unmentionables to be colorful, fancy, and the scantier the better." She leaned over the table and whispered, "But you know who _would_ wear sensible, comfortable pants like that?"

Instead of answering, Molly signaled the waiter back over. "You know, I think I will try a bottle of the house wine after all."


	28. A Teller of Tells And Tales

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Teller of Tales and Tells**

It took two stout glasses of wine before Molly was willing to meet the gaze of her dining companion. When she finally did so, it was with thinly-veiled suspicion. _What's she really after here_? Mary's behavior once more reminded Molly of Sherlock like an ominous sense of _déjà vu_, but she didn't ignore the feeling this time.

Putting down her wine glass, Molly pushed her plate of food away and dropped her hands into her lap. "Is that why you asked me to lunch?"

"To find out about you and Sherlock, you mean? No," Mary replied.

Molly eyed the blonde intently. Fine lines creased her eyes and bracketed her mouth, implying this was a woman who liked to laugh. A matching bit of mirth sparkled in her blue eyes._ Is this all some kind of joke to her?_

As if she heard this thought, Mary scoffed. "Come on, Molly. It's not _that_ bad I found out, is it?"

"Depends on what you plan to do with the information."

"_Do with the information_? Do you think I have some sort of blackmail scheme in mind?" Mary slumped, defeated, in her chair, peering at Molly with what appeared to be sincerity tinged with a bit of hurt feelings that she could be so maligned and misunderstood. "You believe me capable of that? Really?"

Personally, Molly wasn't buying the innocent act for a second. "I don't know. You certainly didn't look me up for just an affable lunch."

"Molly, I meant everything I said earlier about us being friends. Why else would I make you my daughter's aunt? I'm sorry I haven't invited you out before now but I was busy giving birth, recovering, and taking care of an infant. This is sincerely the first chance I've had to do anything else. I didn't expect to discover what I did when I popped in on Sherlock this morning. I only came 'round to annoy him. Truthfully, I was climbing the walls at home and relished a chance to get out."

When Molly refused to soften her wary stance, Mary added, "Trust me, no one was more shocked to find Sherlock had taken you as a lover. Or," she glowed with the glee of a dog who'd just devoured the Christmas goose, "more pleased."

Molly wanted to believe her, but she wasn't sure if that was because she didn't want to hold a grudge or because the lonely child inside her desperately wanted to be accepted into the "girls club." Still, as this was John's wife, John was Sherlock's best friend and partner, and Molly was living (and in a relationship) with Sherlock, Molly knew she needed to find some kind of middle ground with Mary Watson and quickly. "You can't tell John."

Mary shoved herself forward, her eyes alit with excitement. "Does that mean there is indeed _something_ to tell John?"

Molly grimaced and took another swallow of wine. "You know there is."

Mary clapped. She actually clapped. Since Molly wasn't sure if the applause was because Mary had won this little sparring match or because she was weirdly thrilled Sherlock and Molly were shagging, she frowned in return.

"Don't be such a grouse," Mary chided. "I know it's not my business, and I unfairly backed you into a corner. But I genuinely adore you, and Sherlock is like my … younger brother or something. I couldn't help myself from butting in."

"Isn't he older than you?"

"Yes, in actual years. But when it comes to maturity, Abby's older."

Molly laughed. She couldn't help it. But soon enough, the ramifications of everything hit her hard. _Oh dear Lord. What horrendous mood of his I be going home to later?_ "What did Sherlock say when you confronted him this morning?"

"Nothing."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I didn't confront him."

Molly stiffened like she'd been hit with a pail of cold, cold water. "You didn't? Why not?"

"He looked like he was having a rough enough time of it, especially considering I was forcing him to watch Abby. Besides, he just would have lied, and I would have had to drag it out of him. I thought you'd be more straightforward with me. I had no idea you were so gifted when it came to telling falsehoods." She wiped at her mouth with her napkin and set it beside her plate. "I think you're going to end up being my favorite friend of all. If you'd still be up for it, that is?"

Molly considered this long and hard. Her relationship with Sherlock was going to come out to everyone sooner or later. Besides, she didn't have a lot of female friends and this was one who might actually be able to give her valuable insight on the great detective. She seemed to understand him in a way Molly found fascinating and wanted to learn more about. "Yes, I think I would."

Mary beamed with a delighted grin. "Good."

"But I meant what I said about you not telling John."

The grin was replaced with a pout. "Why not?" Mary asked. "He owes me fifty quid for this."

""You've been betting on whether or not Sherlock and I were going to …" She couldn't even finish the sentence. Shock wouldn't let her.

"It wasn't a bet, dear. It was a sure thing. I've suspected secret goings-on between you and Mr. Holmes for quite a while now. Ever since you slapped him."

"What does my slapping him have to do with anything?"

"You publically took him to task for doing drugs. No one else could get away with doing that. Even John didn't."

"John punched him in the nose when he returned to London, and he allowed it. Sherlock has the unique ability to incite violence in people."

"Actually, it was more of a head butt, but that's irrelevant. " Mary shrugged. "My point is that you didn't see the chemistry coming off you two. Everyone else did. The whole temperature of the room changed."

"Sherlock was high, and I was furious. How is that chemistry?"

Mary shrugged again. "You had to see what I saw. That's all I know. Now, tell me how long this … whatever this is with you and Sherlock has been going on. What is it exactly? Not a one night stand?"

Molly took a fortifying gulp of wine. "No, it's … well … he calls it a companionship."

"He would." Mary chuckled and shook her head. "But you are having sex, right?"

"Promise not to tell John."

"You can't mean it," Mary whinged. "There are few greater pleasures in life than demonstrating to the man you love that he doesn't know as much as you do. Why are you so set on taking that away from me?"

"You can crow all you like _after_ Sherlock tells him, but not before."

Mary's eyes blazed with challenge. "I could just tell him right now and be done with it."

Molly stared right back. "Yes, but you wouldn't get the juicy details then, would you?"

It took the blonde two seconds to make her decision. "Fine."

"Promise?"

"Promise," Mary grunted.

Molly held up a hand, doing something she'd wanted to do for a long while but had never had the chance to before. She'd seen it in a movie during her teen years and loved it. Meena had declared it too childish. But now seemed like the perfect time. Sticking her smallest finger towards Mary, she said, "Pinky promise?"

Mary laughed and immediately intertwined her finger around Molly's. "Pinky promise."

"Good."

"So you officially admit you are having sex with Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"And what?"

Mary rolled her eyes. "And how is _Mr. Seven-Times-In-Baker-Street_?"

Molly blushed hard. "You know that isn't true, right?"

"Yes, Janine told me. Sherlock kept coming up with excuses for them to wait. He was more virtuous than an Austen heroine, apparently. Of course, she didn't know how true that was. Plenty of men I know would have shagged her silly even if they were playacting at being her boyfriend for a case."

"And you're not mad he would do that to your friend?"

Mary's smile dimmed as one hand tightened around her glass of water. "Let's just say I understand his reasoning. Given the right circumstances, we'll all cross the line to protect those we love."

A flare of fear mixed with anger flickered on the blonde's face, the expression of a mother bear protecting her cub. These emotions made her seem more human somehow, more endearing. Molly could understand that fierce need to protect at all costs. It was how she felt about Sherlock. How she'd always been when it came to him. Something told her Mary felt the same way about the consulting detective. And understanding that helped Molly release the last bit of resentment she'd been holding.

"So," Mary said, her smile returning, "how's it working out between you two? Everything you ever hoped for?"

"It's … complicated and at times, confusing and difficult."

Mary nodded in commiseration. "I expect it would be with him. But give Sherlock some time to adjust. He's spent a lifetime shutting people out, convinced he was better off alone. Adapting to having someone else permanently in your life after that is hard."

"You speak as if you have experience with that."

The two women shared a look of understanding. At last, Mary said, "You're very insightful. I bet you run Sherlock a merry chase when you put your mind to it, don't you? You certainly keep me on my toes."

It was such an odd thing to say that it made Molly realize how little she truly knew about this woman beyond the fact that she was John's wife, Abby's mother, and a nurse at a GP practice. "I'm too boring for Sherlock to ever want to chase, and I certainly couldn't keep him on his toes. He does that with me. Honestly," Molly added with a laugh, "I'm not sure that isn't why I like him in the first place. Well, that and he's brilliant and exciting and amusing and complex and gorgeous. But me? I'm just—"

"I think you'd be surprised how deep an impact you've made on him."

"I'm dependable and loyal, I give him unfettered access to my lab, and I've learned to intuit what he needs before he'll need it. That's what he likes about me."

Mary shook her head as if she had a naughty secret. "If you ever figure out the power you have over him, Molly, Sherlock Holmes is in desperate trouble. I, for one, am looking forward to that day. I only hope I'm there to see it."

This conversation was getting stranger and more uncomfortable. Molly cleared her throat and took another sip of wine. "I didn't meet any of your family at the wedding. Are your parents still around? Do you have siblings?"

There was another flash of sentiment, but this one was quickly shuttered before Molly could discern what it was. But it was enough that she knew she'd hit an emotional button.

"Orphan. That's me." Mary gave a brittle smile and looked down at the water glass. "No family. They're all dead."

"Mine, too. I'm the last remaining Hooper."

Mary's gaze shot up, and the women shared another look, this one born of a commiseration of devastating loss. That was when Molly knew that while there was clearly more to Mary than she'd initially surmised, she, like Sherlock, was a good person to her core. Whatever portentous incongruity there was to Mary, Sherlock had surely already uncovered it. He trusted her. That was clear. He would not have allowed her to marry John otherwise. And if Sherlock trusted Mary, Molly knew she could as well.

Molly smiled. Mary smiled back. It wasn't the sturdiest of foundations on which to build a friendship, but Molly didn't really mind.

Finally, when the waiter stopped by to ask if they needed anything else and was sent away with a request for the bill, Molly said, "So you know when Sherlock is lying?"

Mary nodded.

"How?"

"He has tells, little physical indicators that give him away. Everyone does. It's just a question of finding them and recognizing them for what they are. Some people are better at hiding them. Like you. How did you acquire that skill?"

"My father loved to play cards, poker especially. I loved spending time with him; so I didn't complain when he wanted to teach me. He said I had a natural talent. I'm not sure I believe that. I think it's more a case of most people underestimate me."

"Something you use to your advantage," Mary noted.

"If they aren't going to bother to get to know me before the judge, why shouldn't I?"

A laugh came from across the table. "Why indeed? Sherlock isn't the only one who hasn't been able to see your worth. Of course, this is something he's since rectified."

"It's not like that."

"Isn't it? You're together romantically, aren't you? That is a very un-Sherlock thing to do when there isn't an ulterior motive in play."

Molly looked away. "Our relationship is not what anyone would term as 'romantic.' It's more like ..." She trailed off as she tried to think of how to put it. How did one explain her relationship with Sherlock Holmes? The English language didn't have words which adequately described what was happening between her and the consulting detective. "Complicated" was the only one that came close, but that didn't truly cover it. Finally, she shrugged and said, "Lab partners with benefits."

Mary's brows shot up in surprise at that. Her lips folded inward, as if she were holding back a laugh. This only embarrassed Molly. She looked down, but glanced back up when she felt someone take hold of her hand.

"Sherlock respects you a great deal. He has for some time. He lets you do things to him he doesn't allow anyone else."

"Sex doesn't count."

"I wasn't talking about sex, but now that you brought it up, yes it does. It does with _him_. John was fairly certain the man was a virgin. Personally, I never believed that. He's too naturally curious not to want to experience the act at least once. But what I do believe is he spends his life keeping people away. It's only a few, hearty lot who've managed to breech his walls."

"Actually, I think it's more like he collects misfits."

That stopped Mary. Her face fell blank with confusion. "Misfits?"

Molly shrugged. "Misfits, outcasts, weirdos. The people the world has deemed somehow broken or not worth bothering with. Sherlock identifies a use in them and adds them to his crime-solving menagerie. The weirder, the better."

Mary took a moment to digest this. "You're right," she said at last with an excited snicker. "Crime-solving menagerie? I like it. It makes us sound like _The Avengers_ or something."

Molly laughed, finishing off her wine. She wanted another glass, but knew it was better not to over indulge before she returned to work. Her job counted on her meticulous nature. She sat the glass back on the table, asking the question she been wanting to ask.

"What are Sherlock's tells?"

"Are you afraid he's lying to you?"

"No, he promised not to do that anymore."

"You think he'll keep that promise?"

Molly nodded. "He always keeps his promises to me."

"Then why do you want to know his tells?"

"I'd like to know when he's lying to someone else."

Mary considered this before she said, "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

Mary propped an arm on the table, leaning her chin on her open palm. "Because, he'll quickly deduce that I've informed you thusly and will then demand you tell them to him. No, the world is a better place if he can't lie to me."

"I won't tell him anything. No matter what he says."

"Since when have you been able to ever deny him anything?"

_She has a point there._ "I assume he has more than one tell?"

Mary nodded.

"Then just share one. That way, you'll still have the rest."

A new grin appeared back on Mary's face, this one heaped in mischief. "All right, Molly Hooper. I'll tell you the tell and a few more things that might surprise you about the man you're shagging." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Now, come closer and pay attention. I'm about to give you an uncommon advantage over London's only consulting detective."


	29. And So It Begins

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: And So It Begins**

Molly was late returning to work from lunch with Mary, which she knew meant she'd be late returning to the flat. But there was nothing to be done to change that. As she hurried through the last of her paperwork for the day, she wondered if she should text Sherlock to let him know. Just as quickly, she decided not to. Either he would be in a mood because Mary had made him babysit or he was out working a case. Whichever it was, a text concerning her expected delay would be most welcome.

As she electronically signed her name to the last form and submitted it, her brain went over the interesting bits of advice Mary had given her concerning how to deal with Sherlock. Mary had stressed the need to keep him in line.  
><em>"You let him think he's running things and you'll never find peace. Keep him on a leash. A long leash, but a leash just the same. It's the only way. The trick is doing it in such a way as he doesn't notice he's on a leash."<em>

Molly shook her head in dismay. Sherlock was always running things. Sure, there were times she made him pay attention to her, but to maintain control of him at all times just wasn't something she was willing to do. Furthermore, she wasn't sure it could be accomplished. Sherlock was like a feral animal. He'd been on his own for too long to ever be tamed. Besides, she considered as she started powering down her computer, she liked him as he was. That wild, regressive streak he had was incredibly sexy—always had been.

Not to say that all of Mary's advice could be so easily dismissed. The woman was quite astute when it came to the consulting detective.

_"He's horrible at discerning human nature in everyday situations—especially that of women. He has a hard time trusting females and an even harder time understanding them. Mycroft is the same way. It's the oddest thing. Though this isn't a complex they got from their mother. She's lovely."_

Molly had raised her eyebrows at this news. Mary had met Sherlock's mother? When? Where? What had been said? What was she like? She'd wanted to ask a million questions about the woman who had given birth to the world's only consulting detective, but as Mary had already moved on to additional advice about Sherlock, Molly hadn't wanted to interrupt. Besides, she wasn't sure it was her place to ask those kinds of personal questions. And, if she did ask, she wasn't sure it wasn't better to ask Sherlock himself. And Lord knew how_ that_ conversation would play out.

In the end, she had found all of Mary's insights interesting-especially the "tell" which indicated Sherlock was lying. In the end, it was a remarkably normal one, one Molly felt she should have already known. She couldn't wait to observe him the next time he was on one of his cases around her. She had no intention of letting Sherlock in on the fact that she knew (it would be nice to have a few secrets from him, if possible), but relished being able to discern such things in any case.

By the time she was retrieving her things from her locker to go home, her mind had turned to dinner. If she remembered correctly, there were enough items in the fridge and pantry to make quick fry up of fish and chips. No, there aren't, she instantly corrected, remembering that she'd cooked those over the weekend. Well, that's it, she decided. She'd have to stop by the shops. It meant she would be even later, but what else could be done?

Molly left from the front entrance of St. Bart's, looking around her as she did every evening. Even though she was never able to spot the detail of men assigned to follow her everywhere she went to ensure her safety from Jim Moriarty, she had always felt more protected in the knowledge that they were there. Today, however, she felt strangely alone. She was sure it was just an overreaction on her part, but the feeling followed her as she made her way down the sidewalk and to the tube station. Pushing these ridiculous worries out of her mind, she took the last unoccupied seat on the tube headed up town. She was chin deep in a book when the man next to her spoke.

"Molly?"

She glanced up and froze, feeling her stomach twist uncomfortably. _Oh God_. _No. Not this. Not him. Not now. _She'd known this would probably happen at some point, but she had—most cowardly—hoped this meeting would take place many, many years from now. She opened her mouth to respond, but closed it just as quickly.

After all, what could she possibly say to him?

**—RE—**

When the third kidney exploded, Sherlock gave up. Evidently, his experiment was not meant to be accomplished today. That its success could have changed the way humans understand the way kidneys function was apparently irrelevant. His ability to adequately focus on his work was gone, as was the last of his patience. Removing his face shield and shucking the coveralls he'd put over his clothes, he tossed both away and stalked into the lounge to sulk in his chair.

Sherlock was irritated. There were a myriad of reasons for this. The first one that came to mind was staunchly ignored. That one, after all, was patently ridiculous. He would rise above. He was a person, not an animal.

The second and most enduring reason was the lack of a substantial case. He hadn't heard from Lestrade all day, there were no clients, and a quick scan of his email account yielded nothing more than the usual tedium wrought of greed, revenge, and lust. If someone had to be greedy, revengeful, or lusty, they should at least be clever and interesting with their concocting and carrying out their nefarious plans, he thought with a sullen shake of his head. If today was any indication of the intelligence of the criminal classes, the world was being overrun with boring idiots.

There was the Moriarty case, of course. But as nothing new had happened in that area, he was at a stand-still until the professor made a move. Honestly, it was worse than that time he'd made the colossal error of playing chess with his father, who spent twenty, mind-numbing minutes ruminating over each move before he actually made them.

Next on Sherlock's list of irritations of the day was one Mary Morstan. He'd always liked John's wife—even though she'd shot him. In fact, he found he liked her better after she shot him. One had to respect a person who would do whatever it took if a situation called for it. No tears, guilt, or recriminations. Just cold, unwavering logic. Honestly, it was qualities like that which made him he sometimes like her more than John.

But this latest stunt of hers was unforgiveable. Making him babysit Abby? _Absurd._ He had tried to tell her so when she came bursting into his bedroom this morning. Instead, she plopped the child carrier on the end of his bed, gave the room a sweeping inspection, demanded he get out of bed, informed him she would return in a few hours, and left before he could do anything to stop her.

Clearly, she was set on getting even with him for that time several months ago when he'd needed John for the Wilkins case. Yes, he knew it wasn't considered couth to go rushing into a couple's bedroom in the middle of the night. But the case was a nine and a triple homicide with a decapitation thrown in for good measure! Did she think those came along every day? Besides, John had refused to answer the multitude of texts he'd sent. What was he supposed to have done?

Of course, Abby started wailing seconds after seemingly realizing her mother had gone—showing a remarkable amount of common sense to Sherlock's mind. What child would actually want to be left under his charge or spend any amount of time even in his presence? _Well_, he thought, _there's Archie._ But most children weren't like Archie.

Sherlock had immediately bellowed for Mrs. Hudson, but as the landlady didn't appear and the repeated shouting only seemed to increase the pitch and fervor of Abby's cries, he tried to contain his desperate need to panic. Screaming children were not his forte. Finally, when he could take the noise no longer, he decided to try what had worked before. This, of course, was how it was that Mrs. Hudson had come upstairs to find Sherlock dancing around the flat with an infant while singing a pop song that hadn't been a hit in more than thirty years.

"I didn't know you knew any Elton John, Sherlock," she remarked from the doorway.

That stopped him in his tracks and glared at her for good measure. "About time you got here. I called and called. Are you in need of a hearing enhancement device, madam?"

"If I had rushed right up, I would have missed you dancing with her. Wish I'd filmed it, but I don't know how to work that part of my mobile. It's a shame, really."

Hating the undercurrent of humiliation the landlady's smirking, _now-isn't-that-cute?_ expression was forcing upon him, he dumped his goddaughter into her welcoming arms. Then, collecting the rest of Abby's things and delivering them to 221 A, he effectively ejected both females from his flat. That Mrs. Hudson didn't protest in the slightest proved his earlier deduction that Mary had called in the older woman as back up.

He decided to take a nice, long bath in order to establish a return to good humor and rational thought processes. But that wasn't meant to be. As he soaked in the tub, thoughts of Molly and the previous evening kept cropping up. Even as he washed his hair and fashioned the soap Mohawk that had never failed to amuse him in the past, memories of the past evening with Molly Hooper invaded until he was seriously considering heading down to the morgue in search of her. When he unconsciously began calculating how much weight one of the slabs could hold as well as how complicated it might be to seduce Molly on one of them, he rinsed himself off and got out of the tub in disgust at his own weakness.

_Lust? That's all I can think about now? What is this relationship doing to me? _

Three cigarettes later, he tried to turn his attention with telly, but it seemed more inane than usual and he quickly switched off. Next, he wandered into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. There, he found the book Molly had left for him. But seeing it only reminded him her, which made him think of how soft her skin was every time he touched her, which lead down a path he feared to tread. So, he hid the book in one of the cabinets, finished his lunch and had a fourth cigarette.

Mary returned some time later to collect her daughter. Sherlock had expected her to chide him for refusing to spend more than a few minutes in Abby's presence or, at the very least, crow at her well-plotted revenge scheme. Intent on ignoring her, he held up his phone and started deleting emails.

Instead, Mrs. Watson plonked into John's old chair and said, "Why did you remove them?"

That got his attention. "Who?"

"The men who have been following John's and my every move ever since this Moriarty fellow popped back up. Has something happened?"

Sherlock put his phone down. "What do you mean they're gone?"

"I mean they weren't there today. I usually see them, but they weren't anywhere."

"Maybe they got better at hiding from you."

Mary narrowed her eyes at him. "No one can hide from me." She leaned forward in her chair. "Besides, Molly's are gone, too."

That threw him for a loop. His mouth fell open. Instead of answering her, he'd grabbed his phone back up and shot off a text Mycroft. His brother, much to Sherlock's frustration, didn't immediately answer.

"You didn't know," Mary determined.

He frowned at her in response as he got tired of waiting for a text and started ringing Mycroft instead. The elder Holmes knew his younger brother's habits well enough to know better than to ignore him. When the voicemail sounded for the second time, Sherlock released a muffled curse and started checking his phone. Seconds later, he felt better.

"Molly is still at Bart's."

"I figured you had some additional tracker on her. Any idea why Mycroft had the security details removed?"

He had some suspicions. The first and most obvious was as a way of urging Sherlock to hurry up with closing this case.

Mary didn't wait for his answer. "I know Jim Moriarty is dead, but the professor is still out there. Surely Mycroft understands the need for continued caution?"

_Trust John to keep his wife informed of everything_, Sherlock thought to himself. In this case, however, it was a welcome revelation. It saved him some time. "Apparently not. Then again, he doesn't believe the professor exists."

"Is he an idiot?"

Sherlock laughed. He couldn't help it. "Why don't you ask him that the next time you happen to see him? I dare you."

Mary rolled her eyes.

"Don't worry. I'll talk to Mycroft. The details will be put back in place."

Mary nodded and got to her feet. "Good. Now, if you will excuse me, I'll collect my daughter from your nice landlady and be on my way. You know," she said, "I expected you to last longer with her than ten minutes. It's pathetic that you didn't actually."

He eyed her with disdain, refusing to take her bait.

"Then again," she continued, "I'd have paid anything to see you dancing around to _Crocodile Rock_. I'm told it's quite a sight to behold."

"Mrs. Hudson talks too much."

"You would think that," Mary said with a laugh as she walked out of the door.

Sherlock stared after her as she left, not liking the underlying deductions he made from her words and her visit. Refusing to dwell on such inconsequential things, he called his brother again. Once he got the voicemail again, he shot off another, more severe text. Then, with one last check that Molly was indeed where she should be, he'd invested himself in his experiments.

And now here he was, several hours later, smoking the last of his cigarettes and waiting for the woman who'd refused to leave his mind all day to show up in person.

_Is this what I've been reduced to? The great consulting detective?_

Molly was already twenty minutes late. A quick check on her told him she was at the shops, something she frequently did after work. He made a mental note to hide more money in her purse. When Molly had blatantly refused to take his card for frequent grocery shopping trips—citing his unwillingness to accept money towards the rent or any other bill in regards to the flat—he had started hiding funds in her purse. He knew John would have been surprised that he would even care about something so trivial, but knowing the meagerness of her salary, he refused to have Molly spending money she should be saving on buying him milk. Now that she was his companion, he was more intent than ever that she should keep her money for herself. There were few areas in his life when Sherlock considered himself a true gentleman, but this was one of them.

He considered sending her a text telling her to pick up some more cigarettes, but thought better of it. One, even though she'd never overtly complained about his occasional smoking habit, he knew she didn't like it. Two, she didn't know he'd put a tracking device on her. Even if she assumed he'd somehow managed to deduce her whereabouts by his usual means—As if he could. He was, after all, a consulting detective, not a psychic!—Sherlock had no interest in taking the chance of possibly cluing her in. Instinct told him she wouldn't like it, and Molly Hooper with a temper was something he preferred to avoid.

Besides, if there was someone here who deserved to be in a temper, it was him. He was still disgruntled by how she'd so expertly handled him last evening. Every need had been intuitively seen to without his ever needing to say a word. Many men, he knew, would have been contented and pleased by this.

Sherlock wasn't most men. It was unnerving to have a woman know him so well as to be able to predict his desires and motives. It also highlighted how little control he had in this relationship. He liked to be in control. Things ran so much more smoothly then.

_Things ran quite smoothly last night as well. You certainly weren't complaining, were you?_

He ignored John's voice in his head. The voice had been a presence during his two years away from London—something which he believed had manifested itself only because he missed his best friend. When it became more pronounced at his return home, he had assumed it was because John initially refused to speak to him. Now, over a year later, he realized the voice was here to stay. John Watson had effectively become his voice of reason when he was knowingly lying to himself, his Jiminy Cricket, if you will.

Sherlock shoved it all away as he shot to his feet. He went into the bathroom and cleaned his teeth. It was only when he'd changed his clothes that John's voice came again.

_So, what's the plan, then? Snog her while she brings in the groceries? Have your way with her on the staircase? _

"Don't be ridiculous," he muttered in return.

_Is that why you changed into her favorite shirt? _

"I tell you, I have no plans to kiss her."

_Yeah? Why clean your teeth then? _

He ignored this in favor of making himself a cuppa, he returned to the lounge and tried to focus on something else—anything else. Unfortunately, before he could do this, the woman herself showed up.

His eyes swept over her. No bags. _No shops then. Or something stopped her from going. What?_ Hair windblown from walking. Cheeks reddened. _Also from the wind?_ Eyes—

Molly didn't come into the lounge. She barely stopped at all as she hurried upstairs to her bedroom. She said nothing to him. She didn't even look his way. Sherlock was bewildered.

_Is she angry at me? What have I done?_

Just as quickly, he realized he was being ridiculous. Whatever this was had nothing to do with him.

_Is she upset about the detail disappearing? Is she worried about her safety? _

He headed for the stairs, intent on finding out what was going on. When he hit the bottom stair, however, he caught a whiff of her scent. Lavender, lemon, and a light hint of decomposition. But this time, a new odor mingled with it. Well, not new exactly. No, he'd smelled this particular intermingling of scents before. He knew what it meant.

Sherlock's hands unwillingly fisted at his sides as he took the stairs two at a time.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: From October of this year until October of next, I have dedicated myself to doing those things which have always scared me. It's not because I am some kind of adrenaline junkie, but more because I am tired of fear getting in the way of making my dreams come true. I have had enough of that; so I am pushing forward-fear be damned. **

**This is not an easy road, and I am going to fail many times, but it won't be because I didn't try. So, with that in mind, I am taking on two such fears right this second.**

**Have you ever wondered who Misophonia is? Whether I'm a published author in real life? I get asked these questions all the time, and I finally decided to answer them. Why not? We're all friends, right? **

**Misophonia's real name is Bettie Williams. I'm an award-winning author of novels and short stories from South Carolina who took a short break from her own characters to follow through on her obsession with writing for her favorite television shows (like **_**Sherlock**_**). This is because my first novel—a historical romance—was recently published. It's called **_**The Rake's Tale**_**, and if you like my writing, humor, and storytelling style, you should check it out. (Best of all: You can read it all in one swoop without having to wait for me to update!) **

**It's available in paperback and e-book format through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iBook, Kobo, Overwrite, or your local book retailer. If you liked it, leave me a review on Amazon or your favorite book outlet. Even though I have no intention of giving up my obsession for writing fanfiction, becoming a real-world published novelist is something I have wanted for a long, long time. Your support is greatly appreciated.**

**And now I am off to write some more. (It never ends.) Until the next story, my friends!**


	30. Closer

**Chapter Thirty: Closer**

Molly ignored the knock on the door. When it sounded again, she remembered Mary's remark on how Sherlock was terrible at discerning human nature "unless it involves murder." So, she decided to be more obvious about her present desire to be left alone.

"Sod off!"

Silence was the only reply she got. Satisfied, she settled back against her pillow and resumed the tearful self-recriminations she'd been in the throes of before Sherlock had so rudely attempted to interrupt. The slight chink of metal on metal had her popping up in bed again. _He wouldn't dare!_

"Sherlock, if you don't leave me alone, I'll never speak to you again!"

It was empty threat, and they both knew it. Silence was again his response, but this time she wasn't buying it. Stuffing her pillow behind her back, Molly settled herself against the headboard, crossed her arms over her chest, and waited for the inevitable to happen.

Three seconds later, the door to her bedroom swung open. Sherlock stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. He seemed furious, but she didn't care. If anyone had a right to be angry here, it was her.

"What part of 'sod off' did you not understand?" she asked.

He ignored this and clipped, "You saw Tom today."

_How did he?—Of course he did. He's Sherlock. Why do I even bother to wonder?_ She sighed heavily. "It's none of your business who I see."

"As you are now _my_ companion, I beg to differ."

Molly's arms fell as her sides as she hunched forward in the bed, unable to believe what she was witnessing. Unexpectedly, a warm feeling filled her stomach. "Are you jealous?"

He blinked, frowned, blinked again, and, with a dismissive wave of his hand, said, "Don't be ridiculous. What would I have to be jealous of? Tom on his best day is nothing but a poor facsimile of me. Now, quit stalling and tell me … What did he want?"

Sitting back again, Molly once more crossed her arms over her chest and said, "Figure it out yourself, o' great detective."

His nostrils flared in anger before he closed the distance between them, leaning on his arms across the bed until he was dangerously close. The warmth of his body along with the smell of his aftershave hit her like punch. Somehow, though, this only made her more cross than she'd already been.

"Molly Hooper," he said, "I have tried with some effort to keep from deducing you aloud since we became friends as you don't seem to like it when I do so. Don't make me change my mind on that score. You won't like what I uncover."

She sat as she was, glaring at him. The only move she made was to cock an eyebrow his way. Inhaling swiftly, he straightened, matched her glare with one of his own and said, "As you will."

And with that, his eyes swept over her, stopping here and there and taking stock. They then fell to the book and purse along with its contents which were scattered across the floor. Within all of a minute, he inhaled and took a step back. She knew then he had most of it. But all the clues in the world wouldn't give him everything.

"You went on the tube to the shops. Tom was there when you sat down. You didn't notice at first because you were reading your book. His presence was unexpected, as was the fact that he has a new girlfriend with a ginger cat. You were so upset from your few minutes' conversation with him that you returned to the flat without having made any purchases."

The ache in her heart which she'd almost forgotten about in her anger at Sherlock returned with a full vengeance. "Good. Now you have your answer. Get out."

He winced as if she'd struck him. Sherlock opened his mouth and shut it several times, resembling a suffocating fish. Finally, with a stiff nod, he turned on his heel to go. But before he reached the door, he stopped. With his back to her, he said, "I'm sorry."

"For invading my privacy?" she said.

He turned, a half smile quirking one side of his generous mouth. "No, I warned you about that particular tendency of mine before you decided to be my flatmate."

"Then why are you apologizing?"

"Because that bumbling fool hurt you."

Something in his tone was too tender, too sweet. It broke the dam she'd been building to keep her emotions at bay, and Molly found herself sobbing again without restraint. The next thing she was aware of was the feeling of his arms coming around her, the hard plane of his chest as her face was pressed against it. She wanted to push him away, to save him from this soggy mess she was turning into—God knows he must be mortified to have to even see this—but she couldn't. Instead, she leaned into him and wept all the harder.

Sherlock said nothing as she soaked his shirt. He merely gave her clumsy pats her back and kept his hold on her secure. When there were no more tears to be shed, and Molly was feeling ridiculous to be making such a fuss over a man she'd broken things off with—especially as she was doing so in the arms of the man she was in love with—she eased out of Sherlock's embrace.

"It's all right now," she said.

Mutely, he reached into his pocket and handed her a handkerchief. _Of course he carries one of those_, she thought as she took it and make quick work of mopping at the salt water muddling her face. She then blew her nose twice. The second time was so loud Sherlock winced again.

"Sorry about that," Molly said, feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment. "I'll wash this and return it to you."

"It's fine," he said.

"I think I'm OK now."

He nodded, but made no move to leave.

"I have no idea why I was upset. I don't have any right to be. I broke it off with him. He has a right to see whomever he wishes."

He stared at her, his eyes wide, understanding, and soulful. It was so unlike the Sherlock she usually dealt with. _Well, not unlike my Sherlock_, she mentally countered.

"I'm fine now. I think I'll just lay down for a little while longer." She stretched herself out on the bed, fluffing the pillow behind her head. She expected Sherlock to take this opportunity to leave—to flee like any sane man would in this tidal wave of feminine emotion—but he didn't. Instead, he claimed the space beside her until his body was lying parallel to her own.

So there they were, both lying on the flats of their backs on her bed staring at the ceiling. The silence between them should have felt awkward, but it was actually soothing. It allowed her to think. She focused on the ceiling tiles overhead, but her thoughts were on Tom.

The touch of Sherlock's hand taking hers broke through her reverie of reproaches and confusion. Molly looked over to see him raise her hand. He studied the limb for a bit, running a stray finger along the pad of her thumb and across her palm. She shivered involuntarily, and his eyes shot sideways to look at her a moment before returning to her hand. Holding her wrist in one hand, he raised his other, covering her palm with the flat of his until the two hands were fully touching. His hand was so much bigger than hers, his long fingers dwarfed her own. Sherlock seemed to likewise be taking note of this size difference as he turned their paired hands sideways to study them.

She didn't dare move her hand during this process. Instead, she kept perfectly still, allowing him free rein. Molly found herself fascinated to just watch him. He traced a finger over the back of her hand, paying particular attention to follow the lines made by the fragile bones of her carpals and metacarpals. Finally, when he seemed to have completed his analysis and she thought he would release her, he instead intertwined his fingers with her own.

She lightly gasped, first from the shock of his doing this and then from the slightly uncomfortable stretch of having his fingers between hers. She had sex with this man on more than one occasion, but there was something about this gesture that felt far more intimate than anything else they'd ever done. Curling his hand, he pulled their joined hands to him, resting them on the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

Molly sighed, feeling calmer. "Sherlock?" she said.

"Umm?" he replied, the gravely depth of his voice sending tingles down her spine.

"Thank you."

He nodded.

"I'm over him. I promise I am."

His thumb rubbed gently over the fleshy joint of her hand. The warmth of his skin seemed to burn a path on hers. It was terribly distracting and oddly comforting at the same time.

"It's just ... I was a truly terrible person to lead him on like that. Of course, I didn't know I was leading him on at the time ... I cared about him, even thought I was in love with him ..."

She broke off when Sherlock's grip on her hand tightened.

"Are you psychic, Molly?"

She frowned and looked at him. "No."

"Did you enter in the relationship with Tom for the purposes of making him care for you so you could then dump him without a word?"

"What—No!"

"And once you realized you did not, in fact, love him, didn't you break it off?"

"Yes."

He shrugged. "You have done all you can do. Beating yourself up over actions you cannot change is a waste of both time and important brain space."

"But I feel—"

"Guilt is like quicksand. If you take one step into it, you'll sink and never be able to get out. Smother the guilt, Molly. Then and only then can you be truly free of him."

"But that doesn't change the fact that I—"

"Tom has survived you. In fact, he has moved on with someone else. What is there left to feel guilty about?"

She considered this a long while. Finally, she said, "Tom was safe and secure. I liked that. I suppose ... seeing him today ... learning he has moved on as he has ... it made me sad because I realized the safe and secure option is no longer available for me."

He turned his head to look at her. "And is that what you want? The life you would have had with Tom? That can never be me, Molly."

"I know that. I don't want that. Tom was the same thing every day. Boring and unchanging and comfortable. You are exciting and spontaneous and scary."

"I scare you?"

She inhaled loudly and let out the breath slowly, unsure of whether he could handle the truth. Still, as lies would get them nowhere, she said, "Yes. Sometimes."

"Why?"

"Because I don't always know what you're thinking or what you're going to do. I try, but I'm not always right. You live life by the seat of your trousers, Sherlock. You've decided to be in a relationship with me, but there aren't any firm rules explaining what that means, what my role is in your life, or what the boundaries are. You're not in love with me, but I am in love with you. Honestly, I don't even know why you want to be with me. Loneliness? Great. So, what happens when you one day decide this isn't what you want anymore? What happens when you realize I'm more trouble than I'm worth? How will I handle it then?"

She shook her head, hating the tears pooling in her eyes. "I lost you once when you left London. I told myself it was OK because there had never been anything between us and there never would be. I forced myself to accept this and move on. But now we have ... _this_." She waved her hand between them. "I know what it's like to kiss you, to hold you, to make love to you. I know what it's like to be with you day in and day out, to laugh with you, to argue with you, to want to pull out every hair in my head because you frustrate me like no other. I know _you_ now, Sherlock. Not just the brooding, dangerous image of what I wanted you to be that I was infatuated with all those years. I know you, and I love you. But one day all this between us will end. It has to."

Hot tears poured down the sides of her face as she turned to stare back at the ceiling. "I should have stayed with Tom because when you leave me next time, I won't survive. I know I won't."

He said nothing throughout all of this, just held her hand against his chest, his thumb rubbing against her skin intermittently. The longer the silence went on, the more she hated herself for her candor, the more she wanted to take back each word and bury them so deeply within herself they would never be heard from again. At last, when she could take it no more, when she wanted to jerk her hand back from him and demand he leave the room, he released her. In one, quick move, his body was leaning over hers, his eyes were staring down into hers.

"I'm not Tom," he said, his eyes running over her face as lightly as a lover's caress. His hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb pressed away the wetness of her tears. "I don't know any of the answers you seek. I didn't plan any of this, Molly. I have always lived my life alone. It was better that way. Until John came in my life, that's what I believed. Before I knew it, it wasn't just him taking up real estate in my life. It was you as well. The longer you are here with me, the more space you take."

She shook her head. "I don't want to be—"

His finger pressed against her lips to silence her. "You are not and have never been a burden to me. In fact, you are one of the most intelligent women I've ever met. I'm attracted to intelligence, in case you didn't know. Well," he added with a wry grin, "intelligence and mystery and death. You hold all three qualities, which makes you _very_ attractive to me."

She gasped as warmth began invading her nether regions. His words hadn't been meant to arouse her. Molly was sure about that, but they had anyway. She moved his hand away from her mouth. "You think I'm mysterious?" No one had ever thought that about her before.

"You are one mystery I can never seem to completely figure out. Once I think I have, you do something else that leaves me utterly confused."

Her mouth fell open in surprise. _What could I possibly be doing to confuse the great Sherlock Holmes?_

"Molly, when I asked you to be my companion, the main reason was due to loneliness. But that wasn't the only reason. I care about you. I always have. I like you. You're morally strong; honest to a fault; loyal; generous; a hard, diligent worker; intuitive; and I greatly admire your ability to tolerate me. Not many people have that skill—in my experience. Moreover, I like how you challenge me."

"I challenge you?"

He grinned again. "All the time. It's one of your best qualities."

Molly smiled up at him, feeling her heart swell in her chest.

Suddenly, though, his grin dimmed. "I want you to stay with me for as long as you like. I can't offer you the life you would have had with Tom. That's not in my power. But I can promise that if our relationship ends, it will be because _you_ ended it, because _you_ couldn't take any more of _me_. I told you this was a permanent companionship, remember? I meant it."

He looked away for a moment. "I won't do this right. I don't know how. You're going to have to be patient, to teach me how to do this ..._ relationship_ ... with you, but I will try to learn. I will try. Is that enough?"

The tears came back, but she didn't care this time. She smiled up at him, reaching up to cradle his jaw in her hands. "It's enough," she said, pulling him down. "More than enough."

He came quite willingly, his lips moving to capture hers. She kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his neck. Molly had never been this happy in her life. The sprightly kiss of happiness, however, quickly turned to something deeper and more passionate.

The next thing she was consciously aware of was the slide of his naked form against hers. _How did that happen?_ But her mind couldn't keep the thought long enough to answer the question. Sherlock's mouth and hands were everywhere, bringing her so much pleasure she had become a creature not of thought, but of feel. She was not idle during this time. Molly took delight in gripping Sherlock's strong shoulders, smoothing the flats of her palms against his chest, tweaking his nipples, and pressing hot kisses against the contours of his throat.

Their previous times together had been wonderful, energetic couplings, almost a race to its gratifying conclusion. But this time was decidedly different. It was a languid trading of kisses and caresses, an easy and coordinated dance, and a slow, but intense experience. Sherlock brought her to orgasm twice, once with his hands and once with his mouth. Molly grew tired following the second orgasm and thought Sherlock must now raise himself from between her thighs and take his own pleasure, but the man proved himself persistent, as if on some kind of mission.

"Sherlock. Oh, yes ... Oh, sweet Lord!"

Her third orgasm crashed over her just as he finally moved back up her form. Looking down at her, he aimed himself against her and, with a soft grunt, pushed inside of her. Molly moaned and closed her eyes against the torrent of pleasure this simple act brought. The feelings were so unexpected, so concentrated that she couldn't stand it.

"Sherlock," she said, clinging to his shoulders, "Oh, God, I love you!"

As he continued to rock inside her, she rode out the pleasure of her latest orgasm until her body quaked and trembled one last time.

Then Molly realized what she'd just said. Her eyes widened as she tensed beneath him. He continued to watch her, his eyes so dilated that they seemed black. He didn't stop thrusting inside her. If anything, he encouraged her to wrap her legs around his hips.

When she did so, this new angle sent another zing of bliss ripping through her. When she finally came back to herself, she thought, _Maybe he didn't hear me_.

Sherlock's thrusts became more intense and erratic as he moved closer to her and closer to his own orgasm. The delicious sounds he made in the back of his throat aroused her so that she reached up to kiss him. He kissed her back, hard and penetrating. Finally breaking away, he pressed his face against the side of her neck, his breath coming out in uneven heaves.

"S-s-say it again," he grunted.

She stiffened. _Surely he doesn't mean_—

"Molly," he pleaded as his body became racked with shudders.

She pulled his face up so she could look at him. "Are you sure?"

"_Yes._ Say it ... _now_. Oh, God!"

Fascinated, she watched him closely as she finally said, "I love you, Sherlock."

And, with that, the great detective fell apart in her arms.


	31. Frustrating Mr Holmes

**Chapter Thirty-One: The Frustrating Mr. Holmes**

When Sherlock's exhausted form rolled off of her and onto the pink duvet covering her bed, Molly followed him with her eyes. When his chest heaved as he fought to catch his breath, she watched him. Even when he draped his elbow over his eyes to block out the light overhead and his tongue darted out to wet his dry lips, she observed it all, her mind a knotted riot of thoughts.

"Molly, stop it."

She jolted in the bed. She couldn't help it.

"Don't overthink this. Just enjoy it."

Staring back up at the ceiling, she nodded. He was right. Did it really matter that she'd blurted out that she loved him while in the throes of sexual climax or that he had demanded she repeat the gesture during his own pleasurable end? Did she really need to know why? He knew she loved him. She knew he knew she loved him. Maybe he was just trying to be nice, to alleviate her concern in shouting it out in the first place?

_Yeah, but during sex of all times?_

"Molly," Sherlock scolded once more.

Again, he was right. Overthinking this would only lead to confusion and misunderstandings. She and Sherlock were finally on common ground, in a good place. Best not to rock the boat. Sometimes, things were just the way they were. No explanation needed. Sherlock had been very sweet today, almost the epitome of the perfect boyfriend. He was calm, caring, and gave her all the reassurance she needed. Molly couldn't have asked for more if she tried.

_Well, you could._

She squelched that thought immediately.

"If you persist in this needless activity, you're going to give me no choice but to engage you in sexual congress again. You can't seem to hold your thoughts much when I do that."

She darted a glance at him. His eyes were still blocked by his arm, but she could tell from the determined lock of his jaw that he wasn't teasing. As she was wonderfully relaxed and sore and exhausted from all the paces he'd put her through, she decided to demur to his wishes. Besides, she really had to wee.

Molly rose from the bed, stepping over their discarded clothing on the floor as she looked about for her robe. Finally spotting the tattered, blue, cotton garment lying over the chair in the corner, she pulled it on and knotted it about her waist.

Suddenly aware she'd left the bed, he leaned up on his elbows and said, "Where are you going?"

"The loo," she said. "I'll be back shortly."

"Of course, of course," he said. "Urinating promptly after intercourse is the best way to avoid urinary tract infections." After spouting this awkward medical fact, Sherlock collapsed back on the bed, his arm once more covering his eyes.

As Molly had no ready reply for that, she scurried down the stairs to take care of business. Upon her return to the room several minutes later, she found Sherlock propped up in bed. Apparently, he'd grown cold because he'd moved under the blanket and sheet, which were now gathered around his naked waist. He should have looked absurd swathed in all that pink, but it somehow managed to only make him more attractive, like a lone ship of masculine beauty in a sea of feminine color.

Molly noticed Sherlock was frowning down at his phone.

"Problem?" she asked, taking a sip from the glass of water she'd poured for herself from the kitchen and carried upstairs.

"Mycroft is playing games, games I don't have patience for right now."

She climbed into bed beside him, not bothering with the covers as she avoided the inevitable wet spot that accompanied their coupling and adjusted her robe over her legs. She stuffed a pillow into the small of her back in order to make the heavy wooden headboard she was resting against more comfortable. Molly went to put her glass of water down on the side table, but Sherlock took it from her before she could and drained it dry.

"Thank you," he said, returning it to her before typing on his phone again.

"Umm ... You're welcome," she replied.

Like the famed Goldilocks upon trying out Baby Bear's bed, Sherlock was too big for the mattress. Molly made that determination when she spotted his toes peeking out from the bottom of the covers. It was such an ordinary, human detail to notice, she couldn't help smiling. In fact, the bed itself was too small for them both, as there was little room left over when she took the space next to him. No matter how much she might try otherwise, her elbow kept rubbing against his, especially as he continued to fiddle with his phone. She wondered idly—since she'd been taking up most of the bed when he'd initially entered the room—if he'd been half hanging off when they'd been lying on their backs talking.

"Molly."

She sighed, knowing what she was guilty of this time. "Sorry, but this is _my_ room. I should be free to think as much as I like here."

"Not when you're wasting your thoughts on ridiculous things."

"How can you tell?"

"The bemused expression on your face gives you away."

That startled her momentarily before she gave a shrug. Feeling more comfortable with him than she ever had and given their close proximity, she decided to conduct a little experiment. She settled her back against the headboard and casually leaned her head against his shoulder. He paused briefly the second she made contact with him. Even though she didn't bother to look at him, she still felt him dart a glance down at her. But after a few moments of silence, he resumed typing on his phone.

Molly smiled and folded her hands in her lap. The events of the day were taking their toll, and she found herself growing drowsy. She wondered what he would say if she just fell asleep against him like this. Would he mind? They had never cuddled or even slept together following their previous sexual sessions—mostly because she always wanted to give him his space. But did that count when he was in her space?

"Damn it!"

That jerked her out of the light doze she'd fallen into. Is he angry I'm thinking now? If so, he's the one being ridiculous. "What? What is it?"

"Mycroft. He hasn't responded to me all day. That's not like him, and now he doesn't seem to be in the Diogenes Club either."

"What's the Diogenes Club?"

"Mycroft's second home."

"Is there a problem I should be aware of?"

"Nothing I can't take care of as soon as he bothers to return my phone calls or texts. He's pushing me. He knows I like to work on my own timetable. Does he really think these kind of juvenile games are going to get him anywhere? I will give him news when I have news to share, not before."

That reminded her of Mary and their lunch, which sent a slight spike of apprehension running through her. "Speaking of news, I have something to tell you."

"I have something to tell you as well."

As Molly couldn't imagine what that might be and she worried she would get so caught up in Sherlock's news that she might forget about her own—which was not something that would benefit either of them in the long run—she said, "Do you mind if I share mine first?"

He shrugged, jostling her head slightly which was still balanced against his shoulder. Molly straightened in the bed, figuring it was best to be blunt.

Folding her legs up under herself, she turned to look at him. "Mary knows."

He grunted, but didn't look up from the mobile.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes. Mary knows," he said, scrolling on his phone as if searching for something.

"Do you understand what I am saying when I said, 'Mary knows'?"

He sighed and finally looked at her. "I assume you mean Mary knows you and I are in a relationship."

It was Molly's turn to frown. "You don't seem surprised."

"She noticed your pants on my bedroom floor this morning and, based on things she implied during her return visit to collect Abby as well as the condescending smirk she kept flashing at me, it wasn't hard to figure out. I assume your lunch went well beyond that?"

"Aren't you worried that she knows?"

The hand that had been holding the phone up for his perusal landed in his lap. "Why would I be worried? She was bound to find out sooner or later."

"But aren't you worried she'll say something to John? I asked her not to, by the way. I figured you would want to do the honors. He is your best friend, after all. Besides, I wanted to talk to you to decide the best approach for telling everyone."

Sherlock flopped back against the headboard with a frustrated growl, his forehead puckered in confusion. "Is that really necessary?"

Mortification washed over her like an icy wave. "You don't want people to know we're together?"

"Why must you always jump to the worst conclusion?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What I meant is that is it really necessary we make some big production out of this? Must we announce anything?" He made a frustrated motion with his hands. "Can't people just figure it out themselves? They aren't _that_ stupid. Surely they'll put it together sooner or later."

A myriad of emotions raced through Molly. Relief, wonder, happiness, confusion, and annoyance. But it was the fact that Sherlock had said all of that with the tone of a recalcitrant toddler that left her smiling. She rested her full body against his shoulder this time, trying to hide her rising amusement.

"You think this is funny?" he grumbled.

"Possibly," she said. "But we still have to tell everyone."

"Why?"

"Because you're Sherlock Holmes."

That stalled him so much he sputtered, "What possible difference does that make?"

"You notoriously don't have romantic relationships. And even though everyone knows I've wanted you for ages, they are also more than aware that you only see me as the mousy woman who can get you twenty-four hour morgue access and stray body parts."

"Any person who identifies you as 'mousy' is an idiot."

Her smile widened. "My point is that people are going to need an explanation. Well, not people _per se_, but our friends do. Otherwise, there's just going to be confusion."

He sighed, long and heavily. "Fine."

Molly heard him typing on his phone again, indicating he'd already put the issue out of his mind, but it didn't bother her. Clearly, devising the plan on how best to let everyone know was going to fall mainly to her. But knowing she had his full support made Molly feel immensely better nonetheless.

_Maybe this will work between us after all_, she thought to herself with a happy, little giggle.

Her phone dinged, indicating the arrival of a new text. Still musing over her friends' reactions to the news that she was dating Sherlock, Molly rose from the bed and went to claim her mobile from the floor where it had fallen out of her purse. She made it back to the bed before she bothered to look down at the newly-arrived text. When she did, she let out a shriek.

"What did you do?"

Sherlock peered at her over his phone. "You wanted them told. I told them."

"And copied me?"

"Of course."

Shocked, Molly stared from the man sitting in her bed to her phone and back to him. Then, shaking her head, she turned back to her phone again, fighting to concentrate on the words she read aloud. "'To Whom It May Concern: The purpose of this message is to convey to you that Molly Hooper is now my permanent romantic companion. Yes, this means we're having sex on a regular basis. No, you may not ask any other questions. SH.'"

He looked at her, seeming baffled by her reaction. "It's concise and to the point. Is there a problem?"

"You sent this out in a group text."

"Yes, you said you wanted everyone told."

"Not via group text!"

His forehead puckered again. "Why not? How would it have been better for me to send twenty individual texts when one will complete the same job? Now they all know. That's what you wanted, correct?"

Molly scrolled through the long list of names he'd sent the message to before yelping, "Mike Stamford? You sent this to Mike Stamford!?"

"Not good?"

"And Meena? How did you even get her number?"

He looked away. "From your mobile."

Molly groaned. "Stay off my phone!" She jerked herself up from the bed, marched over to her chest of drawers, removed her pyjamas, and stormed to the door. Before she left, she heard her phone going off again. In fact, the texts were coming in at such a high volume, the dings couldn't keep up. With a grunt, she tossed the offensive device in his direction. Proving himself as dexterous as she knew he was, Sherlock caught it one-handed.

"Why are you giving me this? You just told me to stay off your phone."

"I'm going to take a shower. You made this mess. You deal with it."

And, with that, she slammed out of the room and scuttled down the stairs. _Of all the nerve of that man! Did he sincerely not realize all the damage he'd wrought? What a complete moron!_

She mentally ranted and raved her way through her shower, so angry she was halfway through shampooing her hair the second time before she realized she'd already washed it. Gritting her teeth, she rinsed the soap away, massaged in a healthy amount of creme rinse, and went to work cleaning the rest of her body.

Twenty minutes later, she was washed, dried, and dressed in her pyjamas. She heard movement in the lounge and glared at the mirror as she realized Sherlock had finally come down from her bedroom. Knowing hiding in the bath was not the most expedient way to handle the issue he'd caused, she forced herself to leave the room. After all, what was done was done. And at least now everyone knew. She couldn't stay mad at him forever. But that didn't mean she wasn't going to make him kowtow a bit first. Molly grinned, trying to imagine anyone making the illustrious detective grovel. _Never happen._

Opening the door, Molly knew she was ready to face the world—or at the very least, the egotistical Mr. Holmes. Unfortunately, when she turned the corner to enter the lounge, she found it was a completely different Mr. Holmes who was staring back at her from the couch.


	32. Your Move

**Chapter Thirty-Two: Your Move**

After the thirtieth response from the group text, Sherlock began deleting the incoming messages unopened. What was the point of reading them? Everyone seemed to be reacting to the news of his and Molly's budding relationship the same way: Surprise followed by an endless stream of tedious questions. Likewise, he deleted all new messages from Molly's phone. From the ire she'd displayed before leaving the room, it was better not to add any more pricks to her temper right now.

Sherlock shook his head, bewildered. Just when he thought they were getting to a less confusing place in the relationship, Molly throws a fit over nothing. He truly didn't understand the issue. She said she wanted everyone told. He'd told them. Wasn't he giving her what she wanted? Isn't that what women wanted men to do in relationships? As much as Sherlock was ruing the fact that he had done so via group text because of the annoying plethora of messages which happened whenever anyone decided to respond, he wasn't sure why Molly was so cross.

The vibration of his mobile informed him John was ringing. He glanced briefly at the screen before hitting the "send to voicemail" option and tossing the phone on the bed. He knew exactly what his best friend wanted to tell him. But as he already had one irritated doctor to deal with, Sherlock put off the other.

He stretched a bit to relieve the stiffness that had developed in his muscles. Molly's bed was too small. Honestly, he was unsure how John had slept comfortably for the years he'd lived here. Sherlock knew he never could. There had been times when he and Molly were mid-coital that he thought they might fall off. _Best to move things to my room from now on_. Not only was his bed remarkably larger and infinitely more comfortable, but it was _his_. In fact, he wasn't sure why Molly wasn't already sleeping there. She could keep her things in this room if she truly wanted, but they certainly wouldn't be spending their nights up here.

When Molly's mobile started dinging like a maniac again, he deleted the incoming messages and turned the blasted thing off. Checking his own phone, he saw he had two missed calls from John, one from Lestrade, and one from Mycroft.

"Finally," he said, getting off the bed and rooting around for his trousers. _Where did I put them?_

They were tossed over Molly's desk. After giving up the search for his underpants, he was just pulling the trousers on over his hips when he heard Molly's scream, which was quickly cut off. He shot out of the door, down the stairs, and was in the lounge before another full minute had passed. One look from an obviously startled Molly—fresh from her bath—to the equally startled man standing by the sofa told Sherlock everything he needed to know.

"Mycroft," he said with a glare at his brother. "I should have known it was you. You've always had a devastating effect on women."

"Very funny," Mycroft retorted. "You know, if I'd been Moriarty, she would be dead by now."

_Point Mycroft._ Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. "You know, there is such a thing as knocking."

"I did. Multiple times. No one seemed to hear me so I let myself in." Swiftly and efficiently, Mycroft's eyes categorized everything, pausing matter-of-factly on the still unbuttoned waistband of Sherlock's trousers. He made himself comfortable on the sofa with his usual aplomb of someone having tea with the Queen. "I also rang you. Clearly, you were _busy_." The smile on his face widened, demonstrating his intense discomfort and customary dislike of everything in his sibling's flat. "I see your _tasteful_ group text was not a jest. Welcome to manhood, Sherlock. Or should I pass on my congratulations to your ... goldfish? Girlfriend? Dupe? I forget. What are we calling them these days?"

Molly let out a soft gasp. This was a harsher tone than Mycroft's natural condescension. He must be truly angry. Not even Mycroft would be so crass otherwise. Plus, he had yet to acknowledge Molly's presence—something he would never be so impolite to do under normal circumstances. Sherlock stepped forward, putting himself directly in Mycroft's sight line and blocking Molly. Even though her Winnie-the-Pooh pyjamas more than covered her, he still didn't like Mycroft even looking her way. If the elder Holmes was going to loose his venom on someone, it would be someone who could handle him. And because Sherlock knew it would annoy Mycroft more, he didn't bother to button his trousers or worry about the fact that he was bare-chested. In fact, he cocked his hip, resting one hand there as if he were completely at ease.

"Well, Mycroft," he said with smug grin, "I did try to contact you all afternoon. Where have you been? Was there an all-you-can-eat dessert buffet at the Diogenes Club?"

Mycroft's smile tightened. _Point, Sherlock._ "Unlike you, I have responsibilities—real responsibilities." He flicked a glance behind Sherlock. "We need to talk _alone_."

"Why? So you can justify why you took away the security details for Molly, John, and the others? If so, you can do so in front of Molly. You're playing games with her safety, after all. You owe her an explanation."

Molly gasped again. "What? No one was with me today?"

Sherlock kept his gaze on Mycroft as he answered. "Don't worry. You were safe the whole time."

"But Jim Moriarty—"

"Is dead. He won't bother you anymore."

"But he—"

"Someone else is using him to try to get to me. Jim Moriarty has been dead ever since he took his life on the roof of St. Bart's the day I faked my death."

"Are you sure?"

Sherlock turned to look at her. "I swear. You are free of him. Just as I promised you would be."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"I tried to, but you asked to go first, remember?"

Molly nodded. "If Jim is dead, then I …" She broke off, colored self-consciously in a way he perplexingly found appealing, and glanced down.

He knew what she was going to say, but he didn't have the strength to finish it aloud for her. Not now. Not with Mycroft here. Perhaps not even after he left. So, instead, Sherlock waited for her. If she wanted to leave now that she was free of Jim Moriarty, Sherlock wasn't going to stand in her way. As he had told her, the decision of when or if they ended their relationship would always be hers.

Molly looked back up at him and smiled, seemingly relieved. This confused Sherlock. It also made him want to smile back at her. He stopped himself.

"Good," she said. She cast a glimpse at Mycroft. "I guess I'll just leave you two to it, then."

She moved past him and headed towards the door. Sherlock had the urge to reach out to touch her, but held himself back. Lord knew what Mycroft would make of that. As much as he prevented himself from touching her, however, Sherlock couldn't stop himself from sharing one last look with her before she retired to her room. Molly seemed calmer than she'd been all these weeks they'd been living together. Somehow, having her be calm soothed him as well, like there was an invisible cable of emotion linking the two of them. And even though he knew the true danger was hardly passed, he wouldn't take that sense of security away from her for the world. He would keep her encased in a bubble of security and dare anyone to break it with him around.

When she turned the corner, he whirled to look at his brother.

"Oh, Sherlock?" Molly called, popping her head back around the door.

He looked over at her. "Yes, Molly?"

"You will explain to me this new danger we're in later, right?"

"New danger?" he parroted.

"Yes, you told Mycroft he was playing games with our safety, which means we are still in danger. If Jim is dead, that means someone else is out there after you. Well," she corrected, "after _us_."

"Us?" he asked.

"Yes. _Us_. We're together now so whatever affects you affects me." She nodded at him to demonstrate the seriousness of her statement. "I'll wait up so you can explain it all to me later. OK?"

Sherlock grinned, impressed. It was quite difficult to get anything past Molly. He would do well to remember that for the future. He was also oddly thrilled with her whole us-versus-the-world mentality. He liked it. "Of course."

With a wink, she disappeared again. Both men waited until her footsteps on the stairs silenced and they heard the sound of her bedroom door being closed. Then, Sherlock walked over to his chair and sat down, resting his hands on the arms of the chair. "Well, Mycroft, it seems you have a lot of explaining to do."

"As do you, apparently. Or will there be an announcement in _The_ _Times_? What's next? Cake tastings? House hunting? Searching for the perfect baby name? Personally, I think Mummy would prefer Talfryn for a boy and Bryonie for a girl. But, then again, she always did prefer to name children after distant relatives."

"Yes," Sherlock dryly replied, "which would explain why her sons have three names each. Ridiculous custom, really."

"Indeed. So will you be informing our parents of your new _situation_ or shall I?"

"There's nothing to tell. My apologies, brother, but as we have discussed before, the next generation for the Holmes' line—if such a thing will ever be—will come from _your_ loins, not mine."

"Heaven forbid," Mycroft grunted, rolling his eyes heavenward.

Sherlock smiled stiffly, hoping Mycroft would drop the subject and get to why he was truly here. Explaining the relationship Sherlock had with Molly wasn't something he was willing to do in detail right now. He wasn't exactly sure of the answers himself. He only knew he was content to have things remain as they currently were. As Molly seemed equally minded, he saw no need for the topic to be discussed further.

There was a long silence between the two men as each seemed focused on his own thoughts. Finally, the silence was broken by the elder Holmes.

"You should be careful," he said. "Emotional attachments of this sort are a hazard and vulnerability in the best of situations. But for you, not only because of your chosen line of work, but also because of your nature and past history, it could be detrimental."

"If you think I'll start using heroin again because of Molly, you don't know her very well. She is stricter when it comes to that than you could ever hope to be."

"She's a distraction."

"Actually, she's proven herself to be an invaluable asset to my work on more than one occasion. No one understands my job better than she does."

"And when the relationship between you two ends? What then?"

"What makes you believe it will?"

"Because I know you, Sherlock. You'll get bored."

"Not with her."

"Fine. Let's say you're right." Mycroft gave a harsh, little laugh. "You have proven capable of pushing yourself to new heights in terms of maintaining human relationships than I ever thought possible. But women like her want things, things you will never be able to give."

"Molly is aware of what I can give her as well as what I cannot."

"Yes, and I am sure she has agreed to everything."

"She has."

"But," Mycroft replied, holding up an imperious finger, "she has been desperately infatuated with you for years, and this is the only way she can have you. Desperation is so pathetic, isn't it? Makes one ignore common sense and agree to anything in the heat of passion. But what happens when times passes and the passion fades? Infatuation is a fleeting emotion, dear brother. Your pathologist is going to want the same things she's always wanted. A home, security, a husband, and children. And you are going to be the same detached bastard and adrenaline junkie you have always been." He cocked his head to the side. "I see it all now. Her infatuation wanes, and her wants and desires take center stage. She'll have changed her mind, but you won't have. There will be an ultimatum, an ultimatum you can't possibly bow to. What will you do then?"

Having his every fear spoken aloud made a ball of emotion form in his throat. Sherlock tried to swallow it as best he could before responding. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

"And when she leaves you? What happens then? You'll be—"

Sherlock held up a hand to ward Mycroft off. "I'll be fine. I have been alone most of my life. I survived it then and can survive it again. As I have told Molly, the decision to end our relationship will always lie with her. She may remain with me for as long as she wishes. When she wants to leave, I will let her go and move on with my life."

Mycroft let out a grunting laugh. "You think it will be that easy?"

_No, it will be the single hardest moment of my life. Point Mycroft. _But Sherlock wasn't going down that easily. "I suppose I could allow one, bitter heartbreak to rule my life for all eternity as you have done, but where is the fun in that?" _Point Sherlock._

Mycroft ignored this, a reaction Sherlock found very telling. "You plan to let her go?" Mycroft said, "Like you did with John? You ended up on drugs within months."

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed heavily through his nose. "For God's sake, it was for a case!"

"Yes, a case which you never would have taken if you were in your regular mind. A case which led you to murder a man in cold blood and which almost caused your death as well."

Sherlock's eyes popped back open as he glowered at the man across from him. "You mean a case I wouldn't have had to take if you had dealt with him in the first place. Magnussen was a parasite out of control."

"I had everything under control."

"You—" Sherlock stopped as something else occurred to him. Mycroft was angry, angrier than his typical worry and overly controlling nature made him. And certainly angrier than finding out his brother had a girlfriend would make him. Something was going on here. _No_, he mentally amended. _Something's happened. Something major._

He narrowed his gaze at Mycroft, taking in details he hadn't bothered to before. _The always-crisp suit, wrinkled. Tie askew. One cufflink missing. Hair slightly mussed. Fatigue lines around the eyes. No tell-tale bulge in his jacket. Stress around the mouth. Slight dip of humiliation in his shoulders. _Sherlock got to his feet and strolled over to the window. Mycroft was the one who sighed loudly this time, but he ignored it as he looked out the window. As he suspected, nothing was there. The street was empty. _Interesting._ He'd known something momentous was coming, but never imagined something like this. Actually, Sherlock was more than a little impressed.

Sherlock resumed his seat, steepling his fingers. "If you're done trying to pick a fight with me to relieve your anger, why don't you tell me why you're here. More importantly, why don't you fill me in on why you've refused to return a single message I've left all day."

Mycroft scowled at him. "You already know why."

"Do I? Well, I do have my suspicions. But it would be oh so much easier if you would just admit it aloud."

"It's your fault."

Sherlock grinned. Never in his life had he thought to see his brother so defeated. It was delightful. "What is?"

"I've been sacked from my job."

_Exactly._ Sherlock, however, wasn't through tormenting his sibling. "You're a consultant with a minor government position. You've survived four prime ministers. How could you of all people be fired?"

Mycroft ignored this. "You know how. It's ridiculous to focus on that. You aren't so stupid as to not realize what this means."

"Of course, and I suppose I do owe you an apology. It seems you didn't take the security details away after all."

Mycroft shot to his feet, his voice loud. "That isn't what I meant and you know it, Sherlock! Don't you realize how much danger this puts us all in? I've been stripped of my authority and position."

He put a hand against his mouth in mock shock. "What will Mummy say? The good son gets sacked from his big, fancy job. You might have to give up that grotesque mansion of yours and live in your old bedroom at home. I hope this doesn't mean_ I_ have to be the good son by default. I am _definitely_ not up to the task."

_Game. Set. Match._

Sherlock had seen Mycroft mad on quite a few occasions, but he realized he'd miscalculated the depth of his brother's fury when he found himself ducking a large, black umbrella two seconds later. _OK. Enough terrorizing Mycroft_, he decided.

"Calm down," he said, jumping up before anything else could be thrown.

"Calm down? We're all in danger and you tell me to calm down? My _reputation_ is in tatters and you want me to calm down? We're flying blind in dealing with the biggest threat our country has ever seen and you want me to calm down? Don't you realize how bad this is?"

"Actually, it's exactly what we've been waiting for." Sherlock rubbed his hands together gleefully. This was better than the time he'd had the case with the woman who poisoned three of her husbands with the drug that was untraceable in their blood streams.

His words stopped Mycroft in his tracks. His face registered confusion and quite a bit of surprise. "Pardon?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Professor Moriarty has, at long last, made his move. It's Christmas!" He pivoted on his heel and headed for the kitchen. Before he got there, he glanced over his shoulder at Mycroft, "Want some tea?"

Mycroft collapsing back on the sofa was the only response he got. Sherlock took that as a yes.


	33. The Gang's All Here

**Chapter Thirty-Three: The Gang's All Here**

_What threat could be worse than Jim Moriarty? _

_ Why did I send myself to bed when it's only half seven? _

_ How did Sherlock's pants end up under my pillow?_

These were the questions plaguing Molly as she got back to her bedroom. Since Sherlock had promised to explain later about this new danger they were now facing, she put off the first question. As Sherlock and Mycroft would undoubtedly be in private discussion for some time, she answered the second question by giving herself permission to go back downstairs in about an hour. She even left the door slightly ajar so she could hear if Mycroft left beforehand. As for the third question, she dismissed it as one of those rhetorical ones which could never be truly answered, tossed the pants into the nearby laundry bin, and went about changing the sheets and bedding.

She'd remade the bed, changed into jeans and her favorite pink, fuzzy pullover, and was halfway through Chapter Thirty-Three of her book when a loud series of thumps sounded from downstairs. She would have ignored the noise completely—Sherlock was always jumping around after all—but as the clamor grew louder and was shortly accompanied by a shriek, she tossed the book aside and rose from the bed. That the shout had clearly come from a female had her racing down the stairs.

When Molly reached the lounge, she found the source of the shriek was Mrs. Hudson. The cause of the woman's distress was John, who stood in the middle of the room grasping Sherlock in a headlock.

Mrs. Hudson, hovering at the doorway, yelped, "You stop that now, both of you! Do you hear me? Boys, I'll not have fighting in my home."

The _boys_, however, seemed more intent on each other than the distraught landlady.

Sherlock, struggling to free himself, grumbled, "You're overreacting, John."

"Overreacting, is it?" the doctor countered, constricting his hold with enough force to make Molly wince. "I've always known you were a complete and total git, but this is a new low. I ought to do the world a favor and break your neck."

"It's not that big a deal."

"Not a big deal? You wanker! You think you can just do whatever you want because you're bored or because it's for some blasted case? Well, you can't. Not this time. You end it. Whatever this is. An experiment, a case, or bloody boredom. I don't care. You end it now or I'll end you!"

"Never!" Sherlock thrashed against him like a child with his head caught between the staircase railings. John's iron grasp held. All the writhing brought prominent attention to the fact that Sherlock was still dressed only in trousers, which seemed a little worse for the wear. Finally, when he seemed to realize that John was too strong and determined, Sherlock let go, released a loud sigh, and said, "I'm trying to be reasonable here—"

"Ha! When have _you_ ever been reasonable?"

Sherlock put his hands on his hips, looking all the more ridiculous. "If you don't let me go, John Watson, I'm going to have no choice but to bring you to harm."

John smirked. "As a trained soldier and a war veteran, I'd love to see you try."

Without another word, Sherlock made some kind of leg sweeping move and John's knees collapsed out from under him. But even as the doctor lost his footing, he did not lose his grip, causing the pair of them to tumble to the floor in a mass of wriggling limbs. Sherlock gave up freeing his head and now seemed intent on holding John's leg hostage in retaliation. He even wound both of his legs around it to keep it in place.

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson cried out, gesticulating wildly at this all-male pretzel scuffling on her carpet. "Do something!"

Molly, thinking the landlady's plea was meant for Mycroft, turned to look at him. The elder Mr. Holmes, however, was slumped on the sofa, seemingly ignoring the goings-on around him as well as the cup of tea perched precariously on his knee. It was almost as if he weren't here at all. Molly wondered what could have happened in the short time she'd been away from him to make him act this way. If she didn't know better, she would have thought him depressed—if such a thing were possible for a man like Mycroft Holmes. _Whatever's wrong with him, he'll be no help with Sherlock and John. That's for sure_, she thought.

Mrs. Hudson grabbed her hand, worriedly. "Molly," she said. "They must be stopped before someone gets hurt."

She opened her mouth to ask what she could possibly do to stop this insanity when someone shoved past both women. Molly looked up to realize it was Mary, who was holding out something in front of her. "Oh, yeah," she said. "Just like that, boys. Give us a show!"

The men halted and looked up at her. John squinted at his wife. "What on earth are you doing?"

"You're on the ground wrestling with a half-naked man. I'm sure your blog followers would love to see that. Actually," she said, snapping photo after photo on what Molly could now tell was her mobile, "I think the tabs would pay big money for these. Final proof that their long-held theory of the depth of your relationship with the great detective is true. Hello, latent homosexual tendencies!"

John, at this, immediately let go. Sherlock, however, refused. "So what? I couldn't care less what reporters think of me," he grunted, retaining his hold on John even as the doctor kicked and punched to be liberated.

"Really?" Mary replied, continuing taking picture after picture. "Well, if you move another inch or so, I'd greatly appreciate it."

"And why is that?"

"Apparently, you didn't fasten your trousers before you engaged in this battle with my husband. One more inch and Molly won't be the only one to have seen the majestic Sherlock Holmes' bum!"

Molly erupted in laughter. Not only because of Mary's threat, but also because of the quick effect it had on the situation at hand. Sherlock discharged John and moved to regain control of the trousers threatening to slip off his hips. John scooted away, doubtless trying to put distance between himself and the nearly nude man at his side.

A few minutes later, and order was completely restored. A few minutes after that, and the group were seated sedately around the lounge. A few minutes after that, and the kettle had once again boiled.

Loading a tray, Molly came around the corner from the kitchen with tea and biscuits for all. Setting the tray on the small table situated in between John's and Sherlock's chairs, she poured and Mrs. Hudson passed the mismatched cups out to everyone—including refreshing the one Mycroft still held. Sherlock had securely fastened his trousers, found a shirt, and smoothed down his unruly hair. Likewise, John had righted himself and had settled on shooting glares at both his wife and best mate. Mary's eyes moved from Sherlock to John to Mycroft, seeming to assess the situation. Mrs. Hudson seemed more at ease as she passed out tea and fussed over whether or not to make a quick run out to the shops for more biscuits. Mycroft, once more, seemed oblivious to everything around him. He even ignored his tea, which had been placed on the coffee table. Instead, he stared off into space, one hand fisting on and off in his lap.

When everyone had a cup, Molly poured her own. It was only when she moved to find a seat that she realized there was none to be had. Sherlock and John, of course, were occupying their usual chairs while Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and Mary had taken over the sofa. There was, of course, the spindly seat in the corner by the sofa, but no one ever sat there. It wasn't the most comfortable of chairs, was usually reserved for clients and—just as usual—covered in Sherlockian debris. Even now, it housed a nest of newspapers, a lone running shoe, and a checkered jacket. Not wanting to bring attention to herself or her situation by cleaning off the seat, Molly decided to lean against the far wall so she could listen in on the conversation.

"So, what was all that about?" Mary asked, giving Sherlock and John her best maternal glare.

"You know what it was about," John responded. "You were there. You got the same text I did."

Molly winced, knowing the text he meant. She'd already worked out that they'd been fighting over her and Sherlock's newfound relationship, but hoped that she'd been wrong. Adding two generous dollops of sugar to her tea, she stepped towards the wall. Unfortunately, something tugged back to keep her in place. Turning, she looked to see if she'd somehow caught her jeans on a nail or something. But there was nothing.

_Odd_, she thought.

"Sherlock's love life is none of your business," Mary said.

John's face reddened as his anger rose. "It is when he sends it out via text to half of London! It does when it involves someone like Molly."

Molly winced again. _Someone like me? What does that even mean?_ She moved again towards the wall. The tug happened again, keeping her in place.

"John, don't start again. I won't have that fighting again," Mrs. Hudson warned.

Molly peeked over her shoulder again. There was nothing there. Nothing, that is, except Sherlock's finger curled around her belt loop. Looking up, she caught him staring at her. She raised one brow in question. His eyes darted briefly towards his lap before turning to John, who had gone on a long rant about Janine and some case.

_What am I to do now?_ She felt stupid just standing here in the middle of John and Sherlock holding a cup of tea. It felt as if everyone's eyes were directed towards her when she knew they were more likely focused on John. Reaching around her, her hand covered Sherlock's finger. Pulling lightly, she tried to dislodge it.

He strengthened his hold. Setting down her tea on the side table, Molly grew bolder, fully attempting to yank on his finger off now with both her hands. Sherlock yanked back, propelling her against him. He caught her by the hips and, in one swift motion, Molly found herself fully seated diagonal across on his lap, her back propped against the side of the chair and her legs draped over his. Her first instinct was to jump up as if her bum were on fire. But the realization that every eye in the room was now firmly on the chair she now occupied kept her motionless.

"Problem?" Mary asked, her gaze darting from Molly to Sherlock and back again.

"Not anymore," Sherlock replied with a grin.

"Sherlock, release that woman this minute," John ordered, slamming his own teacup down. "Haven't you put her through enough? Now you publically humiliate her again?"

Molly jerked, wanting to get up. Sherlock's arms snaked around her waist, keeping her in place. Instead of looking like he restraining her, however, he somehow made it look like a nonchalant cuddle. "How is seeing after Molly's well-being publically humiliating to her?" he asked. "As all the other seats were taken, I allowed her to sit on my lap." His brow crinkled in genuine confusion. "Is that not the gallant thing to do? Should I have let her just lean against the wall as she clearly intended?"

"_Gallant_? You should have stood and offered her your seat," John admonished. "Wrenching her into your lap without permission is hardly the act of a _gentleman_."

"She'd never sit here on her own. Molly has an aversion to sitting anywhere but on the sofa since she feels this chair is uniquely mine and that one is uniquely yours. Therefore, as this would have meant she would have again been leaning against the far wall, I did the _gentlemanly_ thing by taking the decision out of her hands." Sherlock's explanation was delivered as concisely as all his deductions.

Molly, seeing John's jaw tighten menacingly, knew another fight was brewing. "It's fine," she rushed to say. "Sherlock's right, and I'm fine as I am."

"Molly, if you don't want to be there—"

"I'm her boyfriend," Sherlock interrupted. "Why wouldn't she want to sit with me?"

Molly felt her cheeks heat at the same moment a zing of happiness jolted through her. _Boyfriend? Did Sherlock really call himself that? Aloud? In front of his friends and family?_ She supposed it shouldn't have shocked her considering the fact that he'd announced their relationship to the word via text not an hour ago, but it did.

Intent on ending the argument about her and Sherlock's relationship once and for all, she snuggled against him, smiled, and said, "As I said, it's completely fine. Sherlock, would you mind handing me my tea?"

He did so, and Molly found the next ten minutes the most awkward of her life. Conversation continued, but it was obvious she was not the only one who found the concept of Sherlock allowing a woman to be draped over him during tea—especially with that woman being Molly—terribly odd. But as Molly had lived most of her life surrounding by awkward moments, she powered through to the best of her ability.

Finally, the tea was finished and all of the items collected and returned to the kitchen. As Molly had not been at liberty to assist in this, she looped an arm around Sherlock's shoulder in an effort to anchor herself and be a sight more comfortable. With her bulk, she was sure Sherlock's legs must have fallen asleep by now, but the detective didn't seem the slightest bit disturbed by her presence.

Once Mary and Mrs. Hudson had returned from the kitchen, Mary said, "Mrs. Hudson, I'm sure Abby will be waking any minute now. Would you mind terribly running downstairs to check on her? I need to have a few words with the boys here on proper behavior."

The landlady, looking intently satisfied to know someone was taking the rabble rousers to task, got to her feet with a quick agreement. "Of course, dear."

"There a bottle in her knapsack if she gets a bit hungry before I get down," Mary said.

Mrs. Hudson nodded and with a final frown at Sherlock and John, left the room, closing the main door behind her. Mary sat back with her arms over her chest, glaring at both men. "Someone want to explain to me why you two were rolling around on the floor?"

Molly arched, intent on getting up to take the now available space on the sofa. Sherlock again tightened his hold, making this impossible. Without missing a beat, he answered, "Your husband attacked me without provocation."

"Without provocation?" John countered. "You sent an obscene text to half of London!"

"I was simply making an important announcement in the most concise manner possible. It was hardly what anyone would term as 'obscene'."

"You humiliated Molly, who has been a better friend to you than you ever deserved."

"The only one who sees it as humiliation is you." There was a thoughtful pause. "Is that what this is about? Jealousy? You're afraid Molly is somehow taking your place in my life?"

"Jealousy? Why, you egocentric little—"

Molly opened her mouth in an attempt to thwart any additional fighting, but she was stopped from speaking by Mycroft, who, coming out of his stupor, said, "Sherlock, we need to finish our discussion. Any further delay will only harm our efforts."

Sherlock tensed the second the older man spoke. Molly knew he wasn't a fan of his brother, but she'd never been aware of how much Mycroft's mere voice affected Sherlock. Fighting with John, he'd been as relaxed as he was normally. One statement from Mycroft and it now felt like she was sitting on a stiff board. Trying to calm him down, she ran her fingers through the dark patch of hair collected at the nape of his neck, massaging as she went.

Sherlock lurched a bit when she first touched him, but he didn't pull away or make her stop. Instead, like Toby when she scratched his ears, he leaned into her ministrations.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft said after a few minutes.

Seeming to come back to himself, Sherlock coughed and said, "Say whatever it is you need to say, Mycroft. They should all be a part of this anyway. It affects them as much as us."

This seemed like the last thing the elder Holmes wanted to do. Still, after a brief scan of his audience, he slumped further in defeat, expelled a hard breath, and said, "It appears I've been released from my employment contract."

Silence followed in the wake of this surprising announcement. Then, John said, "What exactly do you mean, 'released'?"

Mycroft's pale skin looked a sickly gray, as if everything that had made him who he was had been stolen away. Perhaps, Molly considered, it had. He opened his mouth to answer the doctor, but Sherlock, with a wide grin, beat him to it. "He's been sacked."

Mycroft's shoulders sank in defeat. Without thinking, Molly grasped the patch of hair she'd been massaging and gave it a vicious yank. Sherlock's head bounced back momentarily, and he frowned at her in shock. She frowned back, but kept silent, figuring she had said all she needed to say on the matter. Finally, turning back to Mycroft, she said, "I'm sorry to hear that. What happened?"

Mycroft, eyeing the little _tête–à–tête_ between his brother and his girlfriend, sat up a little straighter. It wasn't until a slow and decidedly ugly smile crept over his features that Molly began to reconsider the intelligence of her actions.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Life is insane. I wish there was more explanation, but there isn't. I think I need a clone. Don't worry. I will finish. Sooner or later, I will.**


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